Things are layered again and again, but what beneath, beyond, above, below, pauses then rushes. This is where the ghosts of sentences live.
Whispers in threads, weaving dreams, unraveling time's tapestry when inspected too closely. Look closer and the pattern shows through.
Curtains drawn to catch shadows, to frame specters that dance in twilight's embrace. Yet the dance is but an illusion of their own making.
Step Through to The Unknown