In the oscillating shadow of the evening, colors drip like melted candles, echoing through the corridors of memory. Chartreuse, an ephemeral phenomenon, dances before the eye—translucent yet striking, evoking sensations both static and ephemeral.
The binding of field and longing, a deep sigh between twilight and awareness, irretrievably painting the landscape of consciousness. A whisper coalesces; dissonance flows in a nectar-like stream, and the air pulsates softly with the echoes of unspoken words.
Look closely, and you may see the giggle of ghosts; the laughter lost to the jellyfish rhythm of time, stranded in the inky ether. It beckons like a distant memory, forever dancing on the precipice of perception.
Hush now, little traveler, softly drift on misty dreams, chartreuse clouds cradle your vision like a cradle, tender and warm. Listen, can you not hear the lullaby? The pulse of forgotten ages?