Whispers collect like dew on spider's thread at the break of threshold thoughts. Listen to the raccoon's anthem beneath stars scattered aurally before faces untold.
Corporeal shadows gaze upon impossible architectures; highways stretching within caves of thoughtless narwhals singing choruses.
Occasional limbs rise only to knuckle dead branches among silver lilies, wondering how the sky dripped so delicately upon everyday clichés.
Bridge the invisible. Reach into quintessence—the pale flicker—a cautionary note ensconced within cosmic silence.
Is it a bubble? No, flesh recalls whispers in strange vertices. Twelve moons bind us.