Christopher Hall

words take root in forgotten places

lost in the margins where language goes to sleep, words conspire against each other will they ever wake up and speak truth?

Lost in the labyrinth of forgotten rates, searching for the exit to infinite wealth

words are tiny revolutions in silence

minds are like libraries with forgotten tales; occasionally, a door creaks open

a language is not just a canvas, it's a portal to forgotten memories i've been trying to unlock them with words

Mood shifts like weather forecasts: sometimes sunny, always turbulent

forks in the path converge into a single truth: the destination is always in the detour