In the stillness, where echoes rest and forgotten ideas weave their tapestry, one can hear the sighs of shadows as they converse in a dialect of solitude. Dreamers dance upon the threshold, where reality blurs like charcoal drawings washed in rain – stained revelations slip through fingers like silver fish. Reflections swirl in a cosmic puddle.
Thoughts retreat to corners painted in deep indigo, trailing back like stray cats under an archway of sighs. Each vowel stretches, yawning on the cusp of absence, drowning in the heavy fog of weary stars. Fragments of skies embed themselves in the heart.
Outside, clocks spin backwards, hands folding in pleats of time now forgotten. A whisper lingers: “What are dreams, if not the roots of waking?” The shadows beckon, calling the unseen to guide invisible paths.
All letters held hostage in the static of a radio tuned to a broken frequency – decode them if you dare, or leave them be, drifting like clouds across the intangible. Each word, a footprint on forgotten sands meandering through cyphers of light and void.
Gather the wisped thoughts – retreating within cloaks of vapor, if a tone taps into the reverberation of the room, we may yet find ourselves here again.
Echoes of yesterday hide in plain sight, yet their faces fade in the infinite grey.