Waves of memory crash quietly upon shores absent of sound. Each push, a dream revisited, only to recede without a trace. We walk along these shores, sidestepping puddles of yesterday’s dreams.
The islands are scattered thoughts adrift in the sea of consciousness. Some bloom, flowers of questions without answers, while others fade, just whispers among the tide.
Touch one island and find echoing halls where whispers bounce. Touch another, the echoes hush and mellow, revealing the haunting serenity of silence itself.
Here are more islands, extending into the eternal expanse:
A silent scream nudges us, a signal without a source, asking the same questions: “Where do these roads lead?” and “Do the stars still shine above, beyond this labyrinth of thought?”.