In the quiet corners of the mind, where the whispers of past echoes linger, lies a land untouched by the passage of time. Here, the mountains rise like the words of a forgotten language, and the rivers flow with the ink of countless unwritten tales.
Imagine a land where the sky is always dusk,
painted in hues of violet and deep indigo,
where the sun retreats behind the horizon
before the day has had its chance to begin.
The hills are gentle, their slopes
adorned with wildflowers that
bloom only in the imagination's
quietest moments.
Rivers wind through the valleys,
not of water, but of memory,
carrying echoes of laughter
long since faded into the
fabric of this dreamscape.
In the distance, a forest stands,
its trees tall as secrets,
their leaves whispering stories
of those who dared to dream
beyond the map's edge.
Here the maps are not mere lines of demarcation but the lifelines of the soul, tracing the contours of thoughts untethered and dreams unfurled in the twilight shadows.
There is a path, winding and unruly, that leads to the heart of this land. It is marked not by signs but by the silent understanding of those who walk it. Footprints lie scattered along its course, a testament to journeys taken by unseen wanderers.
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