Drops fall upwards into echoes not yet spoken, where time detours around corners made of silence. “I think, therefore...” began an unfinished thought, scattering like ashes in a storm of suspended gravity.
“Why do we breathe,” mused the shadow, “when the air is but a memory of worlds unseen?”
Chasing unwritten winds“Will the stars ever laugh?” a wisp musically inquired, “or are they merely tears that found joy in the dance?”
On the laughter of stars“Where does the whisper sleep?” questioned the void itself, “if all shelter is illusion, what is its dream?”
Dreaming of murmurs