The past has its whispers, drifting between moments. We echo through chambers of memory—each sound a pulse, each pulse an entrance. Childhood lingers in the corners, laughter resounding, scattering like leaves in the autumn wind.
Reflections. Words repeated become a mantra, a tether. "Where did we go?", they murmur endlessly, vibrating gently, prolonging their existence. Time wavers; it blurs edges. A mirror faces the sea, rippled surfaces reflect the echoes of yesterday between unfinished thoughts.
Breath deep as scents shift—a hint of rain, asphalt melting into the forgotten horizon. And the sounds wrap around you softly. A lullaby tangled with details. "What did we forget?" is another echo haunting.
Details become shadows—incremental losses reminding us, here and away, it holds the weight of what contains us, both familiar and frighteningly distant.
Listen Again