The moon drips its soul onto cobblestones adorned with whispers, a symphony of silence playing beneath the weight of unspoken truths. Shadows chase their tails in taverns where time stood still, laughter losing its taste.
And then there was the moment when words fell apart, scattering like feathers from an empty nest—"Can you hear the rhythm of the forgotten?" or "What if stories never crumble; they merely recast their own demise?"
Kaleidoscopic dreams yeild nothing but glimpses through smoky mirrors, and stillness echoes in disarray. One might harvest memories like a farmer collects fragments of ice before they melt.