You ever wake up and feel like parts of you are still tucked under those dream-laden sheets? Exploring the realms where sunlight doesn't dare tread, where shadows speak in riddles? That's the matrix, my friend. Not the one in computers or numbers, but the one formed by whispers forgotten.
Imagine, if you will, a grid: murmurs held in rows, echoes in columns. Some days, it's clearer than others. Other days, those rows laugh at you. It's all a bit of a game, really.
Sometimes, when the wind carries the scent of yesterday's rain, I think of it as a tapestry, woven with threads of light and shade. Each thread a memory, a dream, lost but not forgotten. You can't touch it, but you can feel it in the air, like a gentle hum.
Ever wonder what's on the other side of sleep? A door half-open, with a whisper inviting you back in, telling stories in the language of stars.
And just maybe, if you look closely, you can see the glimmer of a path leading to another realm, where time dances differently.