In the interplay of shadows and light, what truth lies hidden beneath the veneer of perception?
As the crystal leaves whisper sagas of existence, the lines fade between belonging and testament. To whom do these stories belong — to those who hear, or to the jungle itself?
Time is an illusion magazine, with pages turning endlessly. Does reading the past in the mirror of the present forge the future?
In the crystal jungle bloomed an idea: Are we mere reflections, or are we the very essence of the gaze?