In the warm blur of a distant orbit, where shadows stretch into fathomless depths, I saw whispers weave contrails of thought.
Curved wonderings around spaces past, echoes refuse to anchor, yet sound instantly announced the silence.
How do gravity wells within proclaim solace in the unseen shudder?

Do thoughts bend to these invisible artefacts?

Sympathetic Frequency
Midnight Weavings
Unlocked Syllables