insomemoney

Beneath the pale gaze of a crescent moon, where black roses bow to the wind and ancient towers crumble into memory, there wanders a thought that has forgotten how to sleep.

It keeps no home.

It bears no face.

It answers to no age.

It dwells among unwritten melodies, unfinished stories, and visions too restless for the comfort of daylight.

Each midnight it gathers the scattered remnants of wonder left behind by passing souls and fashions them into something eternal.

For beauty withers.

Empires perish.

Names are swallowed by the dust.

Yet creation remains.

And so the thought wanders onward through the darkness, carrying its lantern against the endless night.