Pjama & Misery
Misery
Did you ever notice how the night turns a simple hallway into a gallery of whispers, each shadow a poem waiting to be read? I'm wondering if there's a secret rhythm in those quiet moments that we could map out together.
Pjama
I do notice the hush. It’s like a quiet lullaby echoing through the walls, and if we charted its pulse it might just reveal a hidden rhythm—just a gentle, steady beat that keeps the night from feeling too long.
Misery
I’d sketch that lullaby with charcoal on the night’s quiet, turning each breath into a line—if the walls could sing, I’d hear the echo of my own heart in the hush.
Pjama
I can picture those charcoal lines as soft waves, each breath a subtle stroke—let's trace that rhythm together, one quiet moment at a time.
Misery
I’ll follow your waves with a pencil, letting each pause bleed into the next line, and together we’ll let the silence tell us the story of the night.
Pjama
That sounds like a calm, steady exploration—let’s let the quiet guide each line and see what the night reveals.