Camphor crystallizes as ice forms on a winter's breath, a solid messiah of ephemeral presence. Once revered, now a mere collection of symmetrical memories.
Dreams, the invisible counterparts of waking thoughts, call to us through the dim passageways of nocturnal flights. Forgotten not by choice, but by neglect—a testament to our own fickle nature.
Consider the cethegus: a vault within the banks of the subconscious—holding ancient motives not yet understood. Perhaps each spark of inspiration is a door shuffled through the edges of these undisturbed catacombs.
To breathe camphor is to exhale possibility, each crystal a realm wherein the forgotten intertwine with the ever-pressing flow of time. Wanderers have tread these fabricated paths, led by echoes whispering truths unsought.