"Do the trees remember voice?" whispered the autumn breeze, carrying echoes of forgotten lilac.
Suddenly, the clock struck twice, once for morn and once for memory. In that reverberation, the past hummed in a minor key, longing for forgotten symphonies. Learn to forget. Embrace the timbre of silence.
The sound of waves, crashing not on shore but on the walls of a distant hallway. Echoes repeating forgotten lullabies, a song sung by the grandmother of a dream you've never dreamt.
"The past is like a whisper," it was said. The shadows danced and flickered in the light of an unseen flame.
A question posed by an old typewriter, keys rusted and sentiments misplaced.
Each letter an echo of another time, another place.
Do bears dream of electric rivers? Contemplate the rhythm.
"You are what you hear," a mantra in every forgotten chapel. The timbre of existence resonates with choices unmade, paths unseen.
The paradox of memory: a selective resonance that hums the tunes of loss amidst the melodies of the present. Ponder the echoes.
"Reality is but..." an unfinished thought left hanging, suspended in the quiet reverberation of a soulful sigh.