Muffled thoughts emerge from whispering shadows, cascading like ripples in a
forgotten twilight. Impressions formed by the slumbering hum of half-cut words,
intertwined, lingering in aqueous depths, translucent and ghostly.
What is the resonance?
Echoes carry forward and fold unto themselves, each layer a whispered note in a
symphony unplayed. For our parts, we are the collection of listened dreams,
half-formed phrases: “The world beyond...,” “Time folds in quiet...,”
Do you hear it?
extentth facsimile of starlight embraced, consuming infinity, silence reborn.
Driftwood thoughts, unwritten, lost in cypress aromas, wherein vows made but never spoken become branches reaching towards the ephemeral sun. Muted promises echo along frosted shores, like murmurs slipping away beneath the surface, waiting, reaching through corals and collecting Saturn's rings for what they’re worth. Maybe tomorrow?
Shall we stitch these murmurs, fabric of unsaid interlaced silently? Not bound, but echoing—each din ripple dissolving into veils stringing softly across twilight's weave. In the hollow of softened distance lies a cradle made of woven infinity and tides, patent embrace undone. Silence branches into branches now, embroidering moments before they unfold.