Beyond the horizon, where the sun swallowed the cobalt sea, dreams flared and flickered like distant stars birthing shells from the heart of the abyss.
Mirages appeared, breathing lucid fantasies—ghostly apparitions of dear paternal shadows gathering autumn leaves in unspoken rituals beneath auroras of golden syrup, dappling graveyard grass under ghostly lighthouses that reflected on void waters.
A journey paced not by time but echoes, covered by mist—nobody knew where it ended, twinkling like distant silver bells ringing farewell in a whispered wind, singing haunting lullabies to lilac-bloomed skies.
The soil absorbed truths spoken by moons loyal to the sun's wane, filling bottles with messages conjured from stardust sandy beaches, found castaway by abandoned sanatoriums.
There, people turned their faces skyward, tracing constellations named only in forgotten dialects—wishes penned upon nostrils of wizened phantoms roamed silently among brambles and reshaped the very breath of dawn.