Why do thoughts drift like dust motes? Caught in the light of a fading sun, betraying memories.
The sound of pages turning lingers longer than any spoken word. Secrets wrapped in invisible ink, perhaps never meant to be read.
Stop for a moment, observe the haunting traces of predecessors, whispers weaving through empty corridors of time.
Is existence merely a collection of glances exchanged, or the silent resonances echoing through a void?
Can the minute ticking of a clock unravel the mysteries scattered like marbles beneath ancient trees?
A soundless echo wanders forth from a corner, nudging the periphery of consciousness.
Glimpse into the void, and you may find a silent scream illuminating your path.
Then seek solace within invisible ink. What truths lie within the scrapes of time?
Release them into the ether, where every thought maybe a trace left in the sand, swallowed by the tide.