Ever lay in silence, swaddled by the night, listening to the inaudible chatter? The mind’s nocturnal dance. Abstract wanderings that make you muse is both the traveler and the map.
Some say these voices are the echoes of forgotten tongues, remnants of dreams squashed beneath the pillow’s descent. How curious, how intangible.
Remember midnight conversations about oak trees and their olden secrets? That feeling of not quite understanding, but perceiving all too well.
When you glimpse the tapestry of symbols behind closed lids, remember those dusk anthems that hover at the edge.
“The night itself holds your infinite texts, scrawled on unseen pages that only linger when glanced askew.”