In the hollows of hidden chambers, beneath the soft melancholy of moonlight, a soft echo dances. It whispers secrets not meant for waking ears. Shadows lean against unnoticed walls, waiting for footsteps that never come.
Here lies the parchment of weaving thoughts, tinted with blacks and unearthly blues. The ink—intended to be bright and bold—has vanished, gifting glimpses of stories lost in a sea of dreams. Still, impressions linger, like ghostly outlines on the mind’s canvas.
Reflections repeat in the mirror—not once, but endlessly, remaking the past in dark deviations and curious arcs. What forgotten lullabies do these echoes sing, capturing fleeting innocence in gothic hues?
Amongst these invisible echoes, one finds the rhythm of solitude, a waltz with shadows, resonating through walls where light teases but never stays. The dance inspires, unfolding secrets in audible hums that paralyze the air.
Beneath abandoned arches, in sprawling echo chambers, the question murmurs: What will remain when corridors of silence are filled not with sounds, but with whispers of what never was?
Chase the Dream | Imaginary Fear