I roam through spectral alleys, where the walls melt like forgotten shadows, and laughter fades into echoes of danger. Vision, once a bastion of clarity, now lies in tatters, revealing fleeting glimpses of blushing horizons and eternity chasms. Do you hear the whisper? Calling, insisting, embracing the lost and pale dew hung on mornings nameless.
Beneath the celestial canvas, unnoticed marionettes dance their secret ballet, pulling invisible threads across the loom of fate, tracing pathways into voided memories. One remembers the sun. Or is it an illusion spun by cascading dreams?
They asked me to see, to pierce the dim shroud trailing regrets, yet here I stand, blind to the persistent whisper — perhaps it's the wind kissing life away, and perhaps it's everything listening, conversing, shedding illusions amidst the spectral waltz. Might you dance too?