"The songs have changed, haven't they? No longer the sweet lullabies but cryptic whispers only understood by those who listen without hearing."
The streets are alive with murmurs at duskâmetamorphic shadows rewriting tales in their wake. Songs that twist around lampposts, clinging to the cold air. Have you noticed how people turn when they hear it? Their eyes glazed, not with sleep, but a distant knowing.
Once, in a moment of solitude, I overheard a melody that didn't belong. It spoke of revelations long buried beneath the chaos of an ordinary existence.
It was like listening to an echo of myself, yet foreign, disturbing. I followed its trail into the alleyways, where whispers take form and dance with deception.
Amidst these songs of shadows, concealment thrives, weaving webs around those brave enough to uncover truths. But do these truths liberate or imprison? There's a thin line, taut under the weight of revelation. I wonder who's pulling the strings, orchestrating this shadow symphony?
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