In waves unseen, the clouds compose forgotten symphonies. Pieces of sky, scattered, like dust on old phonograph records spinning tales in whispers. Their orchestrations delicate, harmonized with silence.
Do the clouds dream of being more than shadows upon the sea? Or sing musicals to the moons, whose ancient replies echo in the digression of evening stars?
The odes curl into the horizon, drawn endlessly, a dialogue in ether not meant for the ear but in the breath of quiet spaces—how it rests upon the arteries of the world, these symphonies.
The unseen clouds compose random chords of time—harmonies enfolded only in the present's grasping hand. Listen—not with ears but with where you imagine your heart beats when all else silences.
What songs do you sing with your shadows, clouds unknown? Where do you end and begin?