"In the folds of night, where silence speaks."
It begins with a whisper, a murmur lost to time. Somewhere in the corridors of sleep, it waits patiently to be recognized, to be understood — an echo of yesterday dreaming of tomorrow.
In the twilight hours, I find myself walking these dream-laden paths. The steps are soft, made of shadow and the gentle breath of passing thoughts. There is a comfort in this wandering, a solace in the solitude.
What lies beyond the horizon of dreams? Questions cascade like waterfalls in a silent forest. Each droplet a tiny universe, each ripple an eternity contained in a moment. I ponder these things, not because I seek answers, but because the asking is a journey of its own.
And I listen. Not with ears, but with the heart, for the heart speaks a language untouched by time. It sings of futures cloaked in mystery, of pasts that whisper tenderly, of moments that flicker like distant stars.