Underneath the forgotten groves, where echoes sleepwalk in sandals of mist, there lies a ledger — dreams carved unwittingly into the skin of night. A place where shadows compose symphonies of lost letters, and the air hums with the whispers of absent texts.
This is the Library of Mislaid Realities.
The moon once knew a face of clarity, now obscured by clocks ticking backward. In its glow, the sands write stories in reverse, and the tides laugh at the folly of anchors. Here, the truth bends like light through a prism, revealing colors not meant for sight.
The Theory of Echoes
Correspondences are only lines drawn in dust and dew — ephemeral sigils upon that which dreams are built. Each breath a pageless chapter; each heartbeat, a punctuation mark in the prose of what was never written. Wandering through the corridors of this odyssey, one finds solace in the absurdity.
Notes of a Wayward Path