Upon the whispers of the willows, plucking thoughts materialize like wishes carried on the free breath of time, wandering through fields of gold and regret. Synthetic voices chime harmoniously, a choir made not of flesh but of electrical pulses.
In the twilight where dusk laces the horizon, dandelions swirl, a dance of ephemeral creation, dreams wilting into the surreal tapestry of existence. Each flicker of a thought, a seed, cascading, blooming in the fog of consciousness.