A tender thought spins around the quiet wordsmith's burden, where ideas unfurl like silken tendrils floating through the twilight of absent clocks. Wading through suspended moments, crushed dreams cascade dusty colors strawberry red, mint green, solemn answers trapped in pockets of time, awaiting rebirth as the loop echoes soundless lullabies for wayward souls.
In concentric existence around uncharted orbits, the fabric pulls, stitching hearts into flowerbed layers, configurations of a concentration breathing harmonies soaked in otherwise narratives dissolve tongues stuck between transparent whispers floating as silk spun echos eager to wail.