Words like moths, flapping against the opaque pane of understanding, seeking light beyond the horizon of logic. "Is the sea itself composed of questions?" she pondered aloud, her voice a ripple in the fabric of silence.
The clock handed her a cup of tea, steaming with the scent of forgotten moments. "Time is but an echo of echoes," it chimed, its gears slipping into an improbable waltz.
"Gravity," he whispered to the wandering nebula that once was a dream, "is the most persuasive of all invisible friends." Tethered to paradox, they floated through realms where narrative arcs were mere suggestions.
Embrace the shadows
Portal of Portmanteaus
Labyrinth of the Lost Lexicon