In the dim-lit corridors of the internet, where silence serenades the dissonance noticed by no one at all, an echo comes forth. Not of sound, mind you, but the gentle, mocking reverberation of thoughts unthought and realities unreality.
In the dim-lit corridors of the internet, where silence serenades the dissonance noticed by no one at all, an echo comes forth. Not of sound, mind you, but the gentle, mocking reverberation of thoughts unthought and realities unreality.
“Do you hear it?” she whispered to the void. The void, with its yawn and its echo, replied, “Do you want a receipt for this conversation?”
Remember, in the great bazaar of existence, the sale signs are but illusions—each discount is a layer of irony stacked upon the previous.
whisper/symphony.html