Beneath the veil of night's dwindled retreat, the shadows of dreams murmur unwritten verses. Whispers of the possible — of the yet-to-be. They float upon the edges of perception, as elusive as the morning mist.
Each thought a mere leaf upon the forgetful stream, cascading into an eternal horizon. Do those thoughts live on, yearning to craft something tangible from the darkness? Or do they, too, succumb to silence — their essence lost within the ether?
The mind recalls snippets, silhouettes of wonder. What were they, those forgotten dreams? Limited perhaps, by the definitions of consciousness. Possibilities obfuscated by the fog of sleep’s desaturated light.