In the folds of silence, truths linger like moths near a dim-lit flame, flitting softly, murmuring the hushed secrets of forgotten dreams. Cautiously they weave through splayed fingers, as if attempting to grasp the very essence of light.
Sometimes, the kaleidoscope swirls in endless fractals of memory, each shard glistening with disillusion. To dance with distortions— a masquerade of grandiosity—where colors bleed and sigh, unraveling narratives tethered to the anvil of perception.
Listen; the curtains part under moonbeams, as the spirits of old secrets tiptoe in, draped in shadows, murmuring the bittersweet symphony that is life; a requiem for wandering souls— all striving to grasp wisps of clarity in opalescent fog.