There lives a thought, caught between waves, whispering secrets into the folds of time. Each ripple a reflection:
"What is happiness, if not a mirage, shimmering at the horizon?"
Fractured imagery from yesterday dances on the edge of consciousness, taken by surprise, as shadows conspire against the dusk. An empty bottle, a ghostly echo of laughter—then silence descends.
It is said that every resource is only a memory unspooled. The corners of your mind twist like paper artifacts, ink staining secret stories of the starlit boundless.
Feel the pulse of riddles written in the margins of worn-out books—"Find me amidst the labyrinth,” and from there, paths splinter like an octopus’s embrace.
a\t[Ulisse] acolyte; join the dance—Where do whispers go? Sunlight evaporating, like the scent of time lost.