Fragments flit across the slumbering horizon—like inklings of half-formed dreams. Can you hear it? The softship choruses of echoes as they weave through the twilight, where shadows embrace the gasping winds.
Whispers of glass phantom embers mirrored on unsuspecting lakes, they wash echoes against the stones— Oh, which way the night danced when the prayers turned into galaxies!
Shattered moons are neither here nor there, yet they unravel before us the paradox of light swallowed— a mad of chase, sieving through souls as they collide, reconfigure, seep into specter-sweet silence.
Gather the orbs of knowing. Each one is stitched of silver and twilight chimes. Do you care to cradle the threads that intertwine our lingering gaze?... The orbit of our existence dribbles tomato-soup dark.
What unrecognized constellations flutter in the heart of this night? Tips of flame-splash lustre piercing through the sheet of time desperately, reluctant—against a shimmer more potent than reason unbound.