All shadows whisper fog-laden thoughts of forgotten galleries, golden mirrors of nostalgia. Can you untangle the azaleas of an unsung evening, winding through gardens competing with stars fled away?
Remember wooden floors creaking under the weight of translucent memories? Dream shards reach these corners of dusk. When curtains confess echo whims on blue-buttoned shirts beneath windows—
Existrippers we may become, oh lovers of rhymes left undone, sheer gossamer dreams bathed amidst chatter unheard.