In the silent reverberation where stars whispered their secrets, the echo was born, not of sound but of silence.
A void canvas awaits strokes that never came, ink that mirrors spectral dances.
Realities blinked in chandeliers of old dreams, moments suspended like frozen waves.
Shadows written in alphabet soup, floating listlessly upon the page.
Faint hieroglyphs of a language lost to fingertips dampened by time's tears.
Consciousness streams erratic patterns across infinity’s loom, weaving whispers.