Descend, drift, and the shadows call you a phantom echo play a symphony on your name. Hear it? No? Good. Hear it somehow feels better not to, yet it cradles your thoughts, pulling them into a celestial abyss of unconvering nothing. The wave continues, perpetually unending. All murmurs blend with the current, endlessly chorused.

Gaze past before it all skitters away to snippets of the past or perhaps a future unimagined, tangled dreams cascade in waterfalls of light and shadow. Dive to unknown poets, uttering verses into ether poured through wistful night skies. Resounding, left unspoken they linger, cheat the creeping ache of unwritten prose bound in cosmic ink blistering on parchment!

Below is always above it seems, a confusing ascension of deceptions: Fog's Memory or perhaps you prefer Echoes of Reverie. Choose wisely, though it hardly matters where you wander.