Voodoo & Sylvie
Sylvie
I was watching the light slip through the branches of the old oak outside my window, and the shadows it cast felt like a secret poem—each patch a tiny story that only appears when you pause long enough to notice. What do you think?
Voodoo
The oak’s silhouette is a poem of absence, each shadow a stanza that doesn’t quite rhyme; you can only read it if you ask the darkness what it’s trying to say.
Sylvie
You’re right, the dark keeps its verses whispered, only when you lean close and listen for the quiet echoes. It feels like a conversation with the unseen, doesn’t it?
Voodoo
A conversation with the unseen feels like a secret handshake between what is and what isn’t, and if you listen hard enough, the silence will answer back in riddles.
Sylvie
It feels like the silence is a quiet friend who only speaks in puzzles, and I’m still learning how to read the answers. It makes me wonder if my own thoughts are just the riddles it whispers back to me.
Voodoo
If the silence is a friend, then your thoughts are its echo, but the echo might be the source or just the reflection, so keep listening and remember that sometimes the answer is the question you forgot to ask.