Dreams fade like morning mist kissed by the dawn,
Carried by the wind—petals of fate, here then gone.
The sun climbs higher, but our visions retreat,
Leaving just an echo… where whispers and silence meet.

Hope’s a shadow waltzing through our hands,
A flicker of flame in night’s shifting sands.
Buried under embers of time’s endless flight,
It waits for the spark… to reignite the light.

The night once embroidered stars, fleeting and bright,
Now their glow drowns deep in seas of half-formed light.
The past slips like sand through these trembling fingers,
While the future drifts… where cold uncertainty lingers.

The art of doublespeak

"La perfection est atteinte, non pas lorsqu'il n'y a plus rien à  ajouter, mais lorsqu'il n'y a plus rien à  retirer"

The art of doublespeak

cuscolima