In the echo of silence, where notes dare not tread, there lies a symphony — unspoken, unseen. A cacophony of tranquility, where violins weep for the unsung. Do you hear it? Or perhaps you do not wish to. The melodrama of the improbable, an aria whispered by the void.
Yesterday, I found a maestro conducting the wind. His baton was a broken branch, and the forest played in a minor key. He never noticed me, lost in his orchestral reverie. I asked him about the symphonies, but he only smiled and gestured to the leaves. Absurd, yet profoundly rational.
Forgotten Melodies speak in tongues the ear cannot decode. The symphonies of the unseen are written in the spaces between heartbeats, yet we continue to listen, even when the ears grow weary.
The conductor of the invisible symphony was never born and will never die. A constant in the shifting sands of time, unbothered by the applause of the stars or the indifference of the earth.
Infinite Overtures await those who dare to venture beyond the tangible. The crescendo of the mundane and the decrescendo of the eternal. What will you choose to hear?