In a corner that does not exist; crimson murmurs and shimmering reflections echo within a forgotten sphere. Where stories weave through time, and time weaves stories into echoes just barely remembered.

If the autumn light after a thousand metamorphoses; could speak tales to the shadows - would they dance or dissolve?

Crimson shifts in a blurred vision; a kaleidoscope of wandering pulses. Imaginary histories unfold in the sharp-pitched trill of a forgotten melody, patiently still beneath the dust.

Eyes blink in ancient patterns; luminescent souls mapping the stars in seemless rhythm — likewise, are shadows woven to beguile the forgotten songs.

Pebbles casting immense shadows; muffled under layers of thought. Vision intertwined, swooning; Tumult in every ripple, captured in the chrysalis of crimson dreams.

Listen closer; a glimmer resonates beyond the thing said. We drift onward like whispered questions lapping at unseen shores.

Within this sphere and out, find the tale turns upon itself: reflection trailing within veil, watching tales blossom only to be told anew.

Travel further into the shifting aurora; down emerald paths where the forest has a name, yet none. Turn and believe or do not.

And so, the heady perfume of ardent dreams continues to await, just beyond where the last echoes dance.