We exist in fragments, like shattered glass finding respite against the weight of darkness. In each crevice of contemplation lies a seed of release—silent screams echoing through boundless night.
In the hustle of normalcy, mountains crumble; whispers of long-lost hopes penetrate our conscience. Each number we count, lifetimes away; seeking silence in transient noise.
Here lies a fascination with moments—snapshots of regret and identity; dreams washed in the tide of reality. Does the void offer comfort, or does it simply amplify the echo? We dance dangerously close to the edge, threading thoughts with unmeasured joystick confidence.