In the eerie tapestry of silence, the whispers weave tales too magnificent for the conscious mind,
Yet, beneath the conscious laughter, lies an unspoken truth — or is it just another myth?
The winds carry secrets of the wandering shadows,
A symphony played by invisible hands, on strings made of yesterday's dreams.
"I once saw a crow speak fluent French," she claimed, sipping her herbal paradox.
The café was an island in a sea of muted chaos,
Where every glance traded silent sonnets,
And the barista was a poet in disguise, brewing irony with a pinch of truth.