The wind folds invisibly through the arched pathways, hallowing silence like an echo of memories holding hands with eternity. Pathways not charted lead to gathered stones, individual witnesses to songs hummed down beneath cracked soil. Each voice, distinct and unrepentant, falling asleep only to share gentle murmurs in dreams unclaimed.
Did we forsake the echoes, too busy following trails of manufactured noise? Or were we always meant to listen, waiting for hues in the corner of our visions telling us worlds not meant to vanish ever?
At the heart, observe their game of presence and absence, of leaving marked traces like dews tracing petals unseen at daybreak. Dead lines tell no stories, scribbled paths of implicit rules revert into silence; listen to what twilight holds under veils of known ground in pathways heading this way: circular murmur.
Perhaps like falling fragments reviving murky pasts amongst roots threading into stones, we diverge, converging once more into whispers on yz axes approximately examined, veering endlessly towards infinity: veeringen semblables.