A room was never so empty.
Echoes cling to stone walls,
A fading lullaby of frigid rock.
I cloud the surface,
And trace my future in it.
Poetry. Photography. Thoughts On The Way Of Things.
A room was never so empty.
Echoes cling to stone walls,
A fading lullaby of frigid rock.
I cloud the surface,
And trace my future in it.