In the quiet fold of dusk, where echoes dissolve into whispers, the mind wanders under the shade of inevitability. Is the murmur an echo of forgotten dreams, or the prelude to an awakening of shadows?
Time, a river of transient thoughts, flows unnoticed, until a single drop—a murmur—sends ripples across the surface. Have we heard this before, or will we echo it again, ad infinitum?
The shade speaks in silence, woven tales of light and dark, threading reality with whispers of what could have been. Reflection becomes an act of listening to the murmur, a dance of shadows.
whisper.htmlPerhaps the murmur is a question without an answer, a shadow without a source, a dream seeking the light of understanding.