The echoes of footsteps leave impressions on the sand, only to be washed away by the tide unseen. A choir of shadows whisper in tongues unknown—a ballet of wristwatch cosmic tick-tocks.
Once, in the deep recesses of non-memory, there was a seed that wore a crown of stars. Plant it in the moonlit ground, water it with dreams, and watch a garden of thoughts.
Listen to whispers | ATTEND THE ECHO
Do you feel it? The phantom limb brushing against the fabric of your conscious state. It remembers... it knows. And in this memory, you'll find notes left by celestial artisans.