In the depths of hollow laughter, shadows drift amongst the scree behind the eyes, grasping for remnants of cracked hopes.
They say that truth is the ugliest glass; polished, yet treacherous. A delicate prism reflecting bits of chaos, all reflecting back a shattered visage.
Consider the scream of someone unsung, drawn into the depths of the catacombs of their own memory—a deep fracture, cutting through the sinew of sanity.
Wandering through the caverns of time, where each moment lays heavy, twisting silence into fabric—the tears of voices softly muted.