This is where words pause, allowing silence to speak. A tree, perhaps?
Shadows of yesterday cast on empty pages, ink blots forming vague shapes — ephemeral, resilient.
Whispers of the wind, stories untold. Dreams sewn into the fabric of time.
How long before the ink fades, the tree grows roots into concrete? A question lingered, echoes forgotten.
Time stretches, a canvas, where wild thoughts flow. The end, a new beginning — or perhaps a pause.
Perpetuity stirs in the silent ink spots, always hovering, never touching.
The path is visible only in hindsight, tendrils tracing the memory of dreams.
Untitled, unending — the margins escape definition.