Upon the cursive clouds, a whisper danced. Forever hiding behind the eyelids of sleep. When did shadows learn to sing? Echoes in brass carry tales too old for questions. Children draw paths in the sky with dreams made of starlight.
Have you ever counted the stars that have forgotten their names? Unravel the spine of a nightingale's song, and there lie secrets that only echoes remember. There’s a doorway made of stardust waiting beneath the willow. Do you dare step through?
Once, I traced my finger along the edge of a silent ocean. The water whispered back in ripples of silver. The moon kept its secrets well, cocooned in the cradle of night. And in that moment, I was both lost and found, tracing circles in the darkness, endlessly.
Paths that lead nowhere are simply destinations in disguise. The dust swirls around, a ballet of hushed breaths. An invisible thread, connecting hearts to hopes, hopes to dreams, dreams to phantoms beneath the harvest moon.
As the last of daylight slips beneath the horizon, a new story begins, one traced by whispers and wonder.