In the labyrinth of our subconscious lies the realm of dreams, a dichotomy of vivid reverie and surreal uncertainty. They mirror our waking thoughts—zigzagging through the opaque maze of memory, desire, and obscure emotion. Yet, unlike truth, they decompose and reshape, always entropic.
As night cloaks our reality, our dreams carry narratives as fractured as glass on a weather-beaten shore. Bits of past encounters wash over the forgotten dunes of experience, only to fragment further—entropic narration at its finest: Ornaments of impermanence.
Reconstructions of malleable minds carve stories from sleepless echoes. These tablets in the vast open of a conscious in repose once resembled truth, succumbing now to a gradual decay of meaning, akin to sand slipping inexorably through the hourglass.
More loops await those who dare venture the whispering path or trace the decaying fabric. Navigate though each echo transitioning into something almost familiar.