Whispers Of Abandoned Intentions

In the suspended realm of forgotten gestures, petals and fragments drift without destination, as if the world had paused to reconsider its own entropy. They linger like whispers of abandoned intentions, each piece holding the shadow of an emotion never quite expressed. The trees below witness silently, burdened by the melancholy of observing perpetual departure without closure. This quiet, infinite falling—a gentle disintegration of purpose into color and silence—captures a truth we have always sensed but feared to articulate: life, in its delicate floatation, is nothing but a scattered memory, dissolving softly into the abyss of meaninglessness.