In the shadows cast by the moon, letters untangle their meaning, searching for warm hands to bind them.
Once upon, a child asked stars:
"Do shadows dream when the sun sleeps?"
The stars blinked in Morse, a cosmic language lost in the echo of fading rhetoric.
Reflections on glass surfaces absorbed by night creatures, their eyes wide. Once, they saw everything.
The clock ticks unevenly, counting breaths lost in a sigh.
Chase the Echoes