The Garden's Sweet Nightfall

In the twilight's embrace, beneath the ancient lemon trees, cookies lay scattered. Not in pairs,
nor singly, but in an alien symmetry that spoke of the forgotten rituals where shadows tangle and stories untold breathe eerie truths.

With every bite, time folded over itself; a whisper from a dilapidated chapel echoed through lesions of memory,
an enigmatic hymn hummed by unseen heads under moonlit veils.

Unwrap the strings of taste—cinnamon, clove, despair—each a chapter reset in existential paper trail,
the déjà vu akin to Renoir's brush kissing mists of broken reality.

And there upon the path, a mantle of cookie crumbs, a feline specter pauses, locking eyes with eternity,
staring deep into the well of afterthoughts.

Dare you trace your steps beyond the garden gate? Not all cookies lead home.
Follow the wind or embrace the echoes.