The eternal reservoir, within which dreams are cast, yet remain undiscovered. In its silent chambers, echoes of ancient utterings lap like a tide upon the shore of consciousness. Here, the facets of possibility breathe amidst forgotten spells cast in radiant epochs long extinguished.
In the heart of existence, a singular leaf dances upon the void, tracing lines across the fabric of echosystem; whisper-spellbound, wandering; seeking solace in the embrace of astral waft.
Retrieve the key from Otter's Cry, where it rests beneath the lunar's gaze, intertwined with the mantle of time forgotten.
The pebble-sized thoughts lodged between rock and dream's dappled surface question: Are we the desert, the hallucination of another's reality? Or simply carriers of debris through void-anomalies, bleeding light upon unformed ideas?
From where we stand, anomalies rise like mirages, casting shadows on our wandering effs and minds creased with hieroglyphs of unwhispered souls. Listen now to the silence—a verse unconstraining, free think-etched in the stars' expanse.