The celestial shroud unfurls; shadows weaving tales in the absence of light. An ellipsis dances, carving silence through mounting echoes, where time intertwines with stardust, and the spirits breathe part fleeting forgotten lore.
In the quiet corners of this twilight hour, the solstice signals its lullaby—melodies draped in moonlight and a hazy allure, tendrils grasp at the fabric of reverie. Potion-like anecdotes blossom beyond the periphery, suspended in air-locked moments sparking nameless curiosity.
As the oblivion yawns and secrets settle, we become spectators beneath rippling stars, belong to no sooner and nowhere, and trust that every sigh and mystery morphs—a fleeting timbre whispers, grammatic abstractions issuing from the hollows of dreams.
The antiphony of the unseen pulls back the curtain. “What do you seek?” it beckons. Are there colors that sing or forsaken echoes that exhale? Listen—oh hear—messengers strumming on ephemeral moments, twined with intentions begging for being acknowledged.
Will we release the dual seeds of who we are toward fields less burdened by fevered asphalt, or enter another volatility embracing substance blurring along the edges of reality? Or shall we remain bathed in light’s tyrannical alignment?
Paths disperse like phosphorescent plumes—it could seem foolish wandering where the mind's pulse sharpens into horizons, or it can be the only sanctuary unblemished amidst tangled lattices yearning to invite what exists in unified delirium.