Whispering trees, shadows clinging, never wanting to be alone, alone is comfort in disguise. I was near the river once, or was that a dream? Dreams carry hints of forgotten whispers, only heard if one listens deeply, deceptively deep, beneath the waves of consciousness.
Like echoing footfalls on a path erased by time and rain. Yes, footprints leading nowhere. Nowhere but circles drawn in sand, memories not recorded, like an unspoken lullaby fading before dawn.
Echoes aren't meant to be chased, yet here we are, chasing. Chasing choruses and isolations. Each step a story untold, each pause a reflection, each reflection... an echo of what might have been.