Beyond the echo of tapestry winds, I witness every color ghost dancing upon the precipice of thought. Are they shadows of forgotten melodies, woven into whispers of radiant silence?
The prism holds, refracting not just light but solitude, ornate in its crystalline embrace. Each fragment a memory, each hue a different flavor of what it means, to be. Is this the twilight sleeping in my mind?
I long to cascade through these thoughts, as waterfalls through stones, relentless and pure. What lies below the surface, hidden from the luminous day, waiting for night to unveil its truth?
Echoes and ripples, whispers and voids, intersections of every possibility. A dance of endless spectrums—yet here I stand, delightfully tangled within the web of now.