In the stillness of twilight, where dreams flicker like moths around whispered thoughts, the essence of forgotten tales drifts, like petals released from slumbering branches. Each fragment glimmers with the light of stories never told, never grasped, hovering just at the edge of existence perhaps as lost stars on a velvet canvas.
Shadows merge and dance in the eternal echo of thoughts uttered yet unformed, a silent chorus presses against the confines of consciousness with hands made of mist. The echoes captivated in hollowing whispers reverberate softly— a soft lullaby serving as a reminder of the distance between reality and reverie.