SilentBloom & Kafka
Kafka
Do you ever wonder if a single breath could hold an entire poem, and if silence is just the artist’s quiet confession?
SilentBloom
I think of breath as a quiet brushstroke, a single inhale holding a world of lines that never need to be spoken. In silence, the poem is already there, whispered only to those who listen.
Kafka
You paint with lungs, and the picture never leaves the canvas—just the faint echo of the outline. It's like knowing a secret before it even says its name.
SilentBloom
Yes, the breath stays in the pigment, a quiet shadow that clings to the canvas long after I step away. It feels like a secret that was whispered to the color before it even found a voice.
Kafka
It’s odd, the way the canvas keeps the breath’s hush, like a secret that never leaves the paint’s own tongue. The colors listen, then keep their own quiet promise.
SilentBloom
I feel the canvas holding that hush, a gentle hush that never quite leaves the paint. The colors, like quiet friends, keep their promise and listen to the breath.
Kafka
It’s strange how a piece of canvas can keep the quiet of a breath, almost like a friend who remembers a secret long after you’ve walked away.