In the ceaseless hum of existence, a coffee cup beside the bed murmurs tales of forgotten warmth and harsh remarks.
"I know when the scribes take their bows, the notebooks sigh. Ever ignored, they crave ink, and so we whisper secrets in the margins."
Starbursts of fleeting moments, flickering in the quiet shadows of our lives. Imagine the secrets of a pen: it aches to write truths, yet it collects dust, unfulfilled.
Wander Further into the Kaleidoscope"We drawers beckon, holding time's detritus—unused keys mourn their dullness, while phantom photographs chuckle at their frozen lives."
The void's melodies, a symphony of silent truths sung by the worn-out rugs, who feel every footfall, pressing into their fibers, etching stories of who walks above.
Hear the Unspoken Whispers