The echoes of untethered dreams float like specters above the viscous mire of indecision. What does the soul whisper when the winds of purpose are stilled?
Somewhere between what is remembered and what is hoped, exists a gaze—as liquid as the horizon post-rain, yet as fixed as the ancient stones drowning amidst ebb and flow.
Encounter the stillness within a storm of thoughts. Brush past the fallen leaves of yesterday, ghostly reminders of what could have been.
Mist wraps around tattered dreams like a lover's last caress, leaving behind nothing save the gentle ache of lost possibilities.
Riddles of the morning dew, heavy atop the blade edges of existence—Nature's own nostos, invoking an odyssey deeper than the labyrinths of man.
Within every quagmire, a chronicle waits: of footsteps yet unseen by those who continue to wander, only to discover themselves anew.