As the clock ticks down, our voices turn to feathers, cascading softly, drifting through the void. Are whispers the shadows of our unspoken dreams?
ponder the unponderable
They whisper in anticipation as clocks dissolve into sand, grains slipping through grasping fingers. Do words have weight in a world of silenced echoes?
question the unquestionable
When did humility learn to listen, or perhaps hesitate to speak? Every story without a teller is a cartography of hidden truths and open lies.