Beyond the slumbering edge of a forgotten whisper,
lies a rift—a yawning embrace of nothingness.
Here, the particles of stories scatter,
scattered like autumn dreams in a dusted breeze.
In the land where clocks melt and timebeasts roam,
what dances in your pockets will never be home.
The moon grins, everblooming in rhythmic absurdity,
under the watch of a guardian starfish, breathing numbers.
Angels play hopscotch, counting the clouds
with wands made of pomegranate light.