2024 April #002. Whispers grace the morning's hollow wake, silhouettes in glass, their stories opaque. Frozen in time, yet trembling still, a dance of shadows against the will. Echoes of a world that used to be, tailcoats and top hats, secrets they keep.
Through the looking glass, a time estranged, mannequins stand, memories unchanged. Reflections on moments that softly fade, tales of laughter, sorrow, love parades. Attires of elegance, draped in dust, speakers of silence, guardians of trust.
Met with gazes, their eyes unseen, in attire's fold, what might have been. A dialogue of eras, stitched in seams, halls of nostalgia, with whispers that stream. Vestiges of whispers on the wind, a journey within, where time rescinds. Behind the glass, in still repose, echoes of nostalgic transmissions close. Each crease, a page from days gone by, tucked in the folds of a quiet lullaby. Glass confinements hold echoes tight, silent sentinels of the gentle night.
