When the sun dips low, thoughts become tangible. Reach not with hands, but with the mind's eye.
Await the whisper of the forgotten tree: "Nourish silence, for it speaks the loudest truth."
In dreams, the fabric of time unravels. Threads of the past, present loops, and future's weave.
Look. Listen. Enough of words—disobey their authority, for the stars align differently in stillness.
Decode the murmurs from the edge of perception. The truth is a dancer, no step learned by force.