In the absence of sound, thoughts ripple like stones cast upon a still lake, concentric circles expanding, touching the edges of understanding, then retreating into whispers. The mind's echo, a soft resonance, fills the void, yet remains untouched by the world outside.
Imagine a dream, not remembered, but felt—a smoky outline of what was, what could have been. Trace its edges, feel the warmth of its existence, even in its absence. Paths intertwine, fractals of intention, spiraling inward and outward.
Shadows of memories dance in the periphery, fleeting and elusive. A voice calls, soft and muted, a forgotten song lingering in the corridors of time. Listen closely, for it is there, just beyond the reach of clarity—an echo of what was once whole.
Each thought, a star in the night sky of the mind, constellations forming and reforming, a cosmic ballet of ideas and emotions. Isolation breeds clarity, silence shapes understanding, yet still, the echoes persist, a haunting serenade.