In the silent surrender of my spectral hand, I trace lines invisible, colours unseen, voices unheard. I birth creations amidst the facade of luminous shadows, their mirthful mockery echoing in the cavernous void of self-doubt. The vortex above me spins and sways, its vibrant chaos a testament to my teetering sanity, my ebbing energy. Yet amid the weary blues and ashen grays, a glimmer of golden truth flickers at the horizon. My existence blooming not within the confines of seen and unseen, but in the ever-present authenticity of my solitary stroke, my solitary sigh.