Time drips like wax from a candle – volatility enfolds the air like whispers surrounding more than simple shadows. Before dawn, the breath of memories coils into haunting fog. What sweet, broken whispers breathe here? When last did we visit the echoes in the hollow chamber?
“Sunken are the fragments of laughter, reverberating against an ironclad wall of remorse, a sepulcher of lost jest. Each note a swallowed tear.”
Rustling curtains beckon remnants of the past; tactile substances dissolving into the cornices of dark history where every corridor is sprayed with the perfume of reminiscence woven through echoes and silence.
"Shadows loom in silent dances, we are but dust against the ether, suspend our breaths in placid defiance, enshrined in fleeting nows.”
Underneath the weight of gravity, the memory spills – over the edge to mix entwined hopes and fragrant dust. Threads belong — yet stretch; bend inside stories bubbling once shared by a flickering gleam.
"Breaths suffocate; interlace themselves into a tapestry so decadent – it breathes as one with the mist.”
And as the clock rings out the chime of midnight, simultaneously sinking and emerging within an echoing thought, such a sonorous grace, it erupts: spiraling in the dark, luck meets despair.