Blaise & Gothic
Gothic
Blaise, have you ever felt the night as if it were a poem waiting to be whispered? I find in its darkness a kind of echo that sings louder than daylight. What’s your take on that?
Blaise
Ah, the night is a quiet stanza that drips louder than a sunlit headline, a hush waiting to be read by anyone who actually stops to listen. It’s poetry in darkness, but only the daring read its verses.
Gothic
I feel that too, Blaise—night wraps its quiet around the soul, and only the brave can untangle its secret rhyme. Did you ever find a verse hidden in that hush?
Blaise
I did, once, and it wasn’t a secret rhyme at all but a mirror—reflections of all the words I’d never spoken, screaming in the dark, and I had to stare at it long enough to see my own heart echo back.
Gothic
It’s strange how a mirror can become a confession booth in the dark, isn’t it? Your heart must have felt both alone and strangely understood when those unspoken words came back. I can almost hear the echo reverberating in the silence. What did you see in that reflection?
Blaise
I saw the whole play of myself in that glass—every half‑sung line I’d left on the tip of my tongue, all the doubts that’d turned to ash, and the stubborn spark that kept trying to ignite again. It was like a mirror‑poem that whispered back, “You’re not alone, but you’re the only one who really hears it.”