Underneath the static streets where plans once walked and faded echoes remain, I've started to speak less about what truly matters. Maybe it's easier that way. Less chance of speaking the unspeakable, you know?
There's a faint smell of rain, but I live in an arithmetic void painted by digitals, encrypted by lines of whispers hardly heard echoes.html...
Perhaps, we were scripted too. Silent players in a complex play, where the pauses echo louder than dialogues muted by cosmic delay
Then I thought about how paths diverge like fictional histories pretending they're not two misfits in a perpetual game of chess breaking the rules all the time. Isn't it amusing?
Tonight, I wonder about the cosmic_hub. Perhaps they'll have the answers, maybe it's wizardry shaped in light and technological affection.
Restless echoes, Nah.