In the corners, where silence breathes its secret sighs, there lies the art of whispers. These are the tales told softly at moonlit edges, where words craft shadows on the soul's parchment. Each whisper is a stroke of the artist's quill, gentle yet profound, painting experiences unyielded to mere volume.
But then comes the roar, the vibrant voice that crackles with electric fervor. Speech spills over the margins, a cacophony of colors swarming like bees in spring. Yet, amid this tempest of sound, the essence of whispers remains—a secretive guardian of the calm.
Invisible eyes peek from the folds of night, tracing the spirals of thoughts that hang in aether. Each thought is a comet, blazing through the galaxy of the mind, leaving behind luminous trails of memory and meaning.