In a void where silences are spun into myths, the echoes of what could have been unravel in secretive ballet. Each step leaves prints in the fabric of nothingness, ephemeral and hauntingly beautiful.
The sandman doesn't speak at midnight.
These relics of imagination hum beneath the surface, a dissonance of cosmic lullabies synchronized with the heartbeat of oblivion.
Whispers shape the air, a transient sculpture made of longing and heat. Here, the whispers gather; there, they scatter, dissipating into the murmured trenches of time.