The whisper ricochets: thoughts drifting like autumn leaves, falling, rising, embedding.

The questions resound: Who hears the echo?
In silence, in whispers, in the din of the past.

Does the river of consciousness ever cease? The unpredictable whisper, a catalyst for reflection, mirrors the intricate dance of thoughts—an unpredictable cascade.

Imagine the loop, an eternal conversation with self:
Echoes of the unheard,
Silhouette of time.