Imagine if each fling of the air carried not just pressure, but an array of polychromatic essence, timelessly cascading towards the earth, awakening dormant corners of your heart.
The autumn leaves speak in exclamations, rapture woven with whispers of cinnamon and jaunes, exuding a sweetness the tongue cannot taste—only the memory retrieves it.
Does sorrow smell like burnt amber, adorned in the palette of twilight? Or does it stretch and return—a tightrope of cerulean brushing across the horizon as dreams drift away, buoyed upon cotton whispers?