In the depths of the forgotten glade, shadows speak of ephemeral truths, whispering secrets collected from fluttering leaves—
A town unvisited, oak trees stand as sentinels to stories erased from time, lost like the murmurs of souls long departed. Like quiet echoes surrounding the abandoned street lamps, yellow light that once warmed hands now chills the eerie night.
The wind howls tales beneath the star of caution, inviting a clandestine rendezvous with thoughts uncharted; are we meant to overhear the whispered fragments?
Concrete structures bend inward, trapping reflections—not the light you see but the dark we see not; surreal denials spill forth from coddled cookie jar confessions in basements filled with regret.
Enigma, that nagging little thought that insists you know what you should not know. Thus their language forms, becoming a essence of fleeting meaning amidst the chaos of voices absent from attribution.