"Methinks the moon herself grows envious, casting down beams softened not by the weight of her silken night's veil," she mused, twirling her thoughts like threads of gossamer spun across forgotten dreams.
"A truth uncovered," whispered the ancient clock with a voice like grinding stars, "is but another illusion unmasked, leaving the seeker adrift in a sea of shadows and echoed laughter."
"And what of love, that mischievous sprite who dances across the firmament, leaving trails of embers in the hearts of the unwilling?" he inquired, his voice a ripple in the fabric of reality.