Darkened corridors of thought weaving through a fabric of whispers, lace charcoal shadows mingling with echoes of forgotten laughter, the essence of unspoken dreams lingering in half-lit rooms. "This is where we begin," the voice murmurs, entwined with silk threads spidering across the mind.
A clock ticks backward in rhythm with the falling leaves, echoing secrets kept beneath roots that burrow like dreams undreamt, unraveling time like an old sweater, each stitch a wandering soul, wandering into night—"if only we could forget."
Abyssal pools reflect fractured images of the self, as the heart beats a sonnet of forgotten languages, shadows break dance while time unravels a tapestry sewn with unfulfilled wishes. Look close, the oak sees; it knows. Do you feel it pulse?
Was it Tuesday when the stars whispered my name, or did they thrum a tune only the wind understands? The leaves sigh tales of possibility, scattered on the ground where truths slumber silently.
In the corner, a moth flutters—restless specter of the night, chasing phantoms of streetlights' comforts, "Between two worlds, one breath separates the unseen."
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