When the horizon bleeds its final orange, whispers of lost echoes scatter.
Along streets rendered invisible by burgeoning silence, dreams linger unhoused.
Some fragments speak of timeless voyages—the cables frayed at sea still hum.
In the autumn wind, voices old as pyramids murmur beneath layers of time.
<3>Ruminations coalesce into signals—irreverent, reckless, reverent transmissions once cast into void. Where do they propagate their stories, if not within the memory of this earth?Places forgotten and browsed, echoes unnoticed in flight: