In the hollowed marrow of silence, whispers weave a kaleidoscope of forgotten truths. A solitary existence amplifies the echo of one's thoughts, reverberating through infinite chambers of the mind, like a violin strung upon destiny's fragile hope.
Here within these empty halls—where time lingers, a cautious observer—the soul nurtures its aspirations in unmeasured solitude. Each reflective gaze into the abyss returns a new self, one defined more by the lingering essence of absence than the presence of things.
Consider a world—perpetually spinning yet wrapped in eternal dusk—where the voices of many become one. Does the resonance form a symphony or merely a dissonance? Our solitude begs the answers only the stars might affix, if only to our fingers reaching towards celestial parchment.
Recount, uneasy in its cruise through the melancholic present, ebbs between words.
a poet's broken compass