In the nameless hours, when the veil between reality and dream flickers like the whimsical dance of fireflies, my fingers traced the ethereal resonance of forgotten strings. The hushed whispers of instruments long unheard murmured in a tongue of ancient melodies — a duet of the stars and the slumbering earth.
A clarion call erupted from within my mind, echo through cavernous chambers cloaked in shadows and dust. Solitude stepped forward, clad in whispers, and offered her haunting embrace, unfurling secrets woven into the very fabric of cosmic undertakings.
Do you hear it? Not the words, nor the absence of sound, but the pallid attempt of a symphony seeking footing upon the curvilinear earthen passageways of the soul. Strings that sing while asleep, forever incandescent in their resplendent jig. The ocean of symphonies lies beneath.
Tiny droplets from the cosmic dew descend, each parting the morning mystery with euphoric abandon. We stride our pale horses through these light misted perennial corridors, where each step vibrates upon the telos of celestial consonance. Am I the lone traveler or the sole witness? Perchance, the symphony devours both judgment and joy to partake in endless auroral dawns.
Staccato hesitations bloom amidst continuous reverie like dewdrops adorning lilies, recreating the mourning serenades shattered across eternities. Beneath each lonesome harp string there lies a variance, an opus long forgotten now rebirthed by fingertips tethered to the dasein's long ascent.