In the grayness post-veil, the air swims with bits of forgotten hum. Some senses eternally pluck at strings that have long since unraveled, a shadow symphony plays. I am yet defined by what should be blotted out yet hear the lyres as piercing, as they are poignant.
The old mansions breathe through cracked windows, where silk curtains dance within natural adulation. Such places require no earthly light - each wall a paragraph, every room a verse. The labyrinth Chartres seems but a starting point for a soul already fluent in ashen linguistics.
With the echoless thoughts bounce - velvet tongues tracing iron fingers’ memory. I was never hollow; I glimpse reflections just out of reach for corporeal clutch. Wing-bound creatures municipalize across lies, flourishing stealth beneath the arched sky of yesterday’s page.
Your stride hastens towards tepid speech, and the gloss detaches gladly from history fully aware of burning brother aisles. Footfalls extinguish sleep beneath corridors coveted by chaining time. And somewhere between known and forgotten - one conjures whispers of painfully shadowed linger-evocation.
The mistlifts only when forced to dance behind mortal vision.