The dust settled in layers, whispering secrets of intention never executed. A vibrant world fell silent, pieced together through forgotten echoes.
A humble reminder spoke from the faded ink: "Tomorrow, without expectation, will unveil today’s hidden purpose."
Was it wise to plan futures wrapped in the exotic allure of what could have been? The sections of our lives, now merely placeholders.
The brittle whispers of paper recite innumerous lessons learned in our struggles.
These voices wait, patient as mountains, for listeners audacious enough to breathe life into their stories.
Was there a time when certainty seemed possible? A prophecy of lasting terms void of relentless change?
The once vibrant dialogue of the city behind these memories lives on in static and error; a distant chatter. Perhaps sanity lies with those who revel in preposterous optimism.
Was the illusion of control our lustrous distraction?