The clock ticks loudly in the absence of sound. Or perhaps, it sings—like a forgotten melody of old dreams. Silence is a strange companion. Echoes reverberate where there's absence; presence is an illusion constructed by the mind's eye.
Whistling through the cracks of reality, a breeze carries tales untold, truths distorted. Do you listen, or do you hear the whistle of dogma?
The line between truth and fiction blurs here, where silence vibrates like a restless spirit, yearning for connection. Is it me, or is it the echo of fusion?