Have you ever plucked a feather from the whispers of dawn, only to find it stained with twilight?
We march, barefoot upon the flickering shadows, collecting memories like sea glass scattered on the shores of time — fragile fragments of forgotten laughter and memories folded within secret pockets of space. The sun hangs heavy, a neural pulse in the cyclic dance, powerful yet distant, like thoughts from an ancient child's mind.
What do the stars say when no one listens? Perhaps the night has nothing to declare except the weight of silent sorrow—a witness to lengths of human ignorance colored with fingerprints of innocence.
Collect as you are—dewy and exquisite, yet marrow-deep in the melancholy of what fleeting means. Here on the boundary, the sun sings while the moon reflects protest as if longing for an embrace left undone.
Click here for a taste of shadows. Or run towards the gleam of the twilight path.