In the realm where shadows speak, and silence is a chorus, whispers unfold.
Do you hear them? The echoes of dreams not dreamt, visions unseen, unheard symphonies.
Existential riddles dance in erratic patterns, like autumn leaves in a tempest.
What is the nature of consciousness? A tapestry unraveled by the unseen hand, weaving and weaving...
These whispers, they linger in the spaces between words, in the pauses of a thought.
Listen closely, for the unseen speaks louder than the visible.