Streams of compliance flicker in the twilight, shadow-puppets dance under lunar chandeliers, while voices hidden in silk weave tales of where the daylight dares not tread.
Electric whispers form constellations of tender intrigue over the solitude, a cosmic tide undulating on hushed breaths, where dreams conjoin in symphonic silence.
Sun-infused echoes fading into endless corridors of night, a borrowed memory of the sun dipped in the frost of midnight. Lost within, traces of laughter linger, colored in echoes and shadows, stitched into the fabric of what it means to truly, softly, fade away.
Grab hold! Or do not grasp, for this is the paradox of holding without grasping, as moths trace spirals of illumination against velvet horizons.
Chasing Fragments