Beneath the sepia sky, where olives serenade the horizon in a cloying haze, our whispers of eternity blend with the forgotten melodies of yesteryears. Hectare-sized lampposts wax philosophical, casting arcs of illumination over cobblestone paths that lead nowhere — and everywhere.
When the clock's embrace dissolves into perfumed fragments, the roses sing, their petals tilted conspiratorially towards the whispering winds. "Are we the dreamers, or are dreams, perhaps, the lucid metamorphosis of waking folly?" muses a lone trumpet vine, entwined with sepulcher marble columns.
The world spins sepia-toned poetry; chaos and ardor a singular refrain, danced across the crimson tongues of forgotten flame. Gaze east, and the muse winks knowingly behind the veil of a piquant dusk.
Murmuring Shadows | Insomnia's Vermelho