Fleeting thoughts weaving through the cosmic veil, as if echoes of yesterdays blowing in the astral tides. I felt it, didn't I? No, never mind. Just a phantom word upon lips unformed, a sound not yet spoken.
Do you remember when the planets aligned, or perhaps they haven't yet? Time is but a playground for the celestial, swings crashing against a universe of sand. Imprints of stars in your palms.
There lies the moon, bathing everything in a layer of spectral silver—tufts of dreams dance like whispers left in forgotten corridors. Does freedom taste like the color teal? The answer lies beyond the horizon of understanding, splashed across the canvas of fateful echoes.
You ask why the leaves sing songs of ancient knowledge, and the answer is a mystery wrapped in dew, held close by seagulls on hidden tides. Listen. Never listen too intently, for the truth is a slippery fish beneath a lake of perception.
A single word reverberates within the hollow of dreams: "Elysium".