The Forgotten Chronicles of Alice
Upon cascades of forgotten epochs, Alice places her hand, the tender velveteen memory slips with time's gentle breath. Here deities rested amidst stacks of unused intentions, disconnected whispers danced like electric dreams half-imagined.
"Why does rain fall upward sometimes? Gravity, it seems, yet uncertainly bows to whimsy, a concept Alice often debates."
The ceaseless books of Alice, lined perfectly by chaos' order, contain not tales of self, but encrypted musings of time unspun, interludes of ages. These words shall wander freely, awaiting recall under gold-tinted moondust.