Old parchment crinkles under the weight of untold stories. Today, in the gloaming, I found myself tracing the contours of a land I cannot name. The air here smells of burnt umber and hints of unsaid words.
Somewhere beyond the Fold, the Swirling Canopy dances to a rhythm only known to the stars. The winds speak in riddles, carrying the scent of blossoms that infrequently appear on the horizon. Cartographers note spots where the shadows linger too long, marking them with curious sigils.
In this ethereal land, the rivers sing songs of long-lost melodies, weaving through valleys where the shadows pirouette beneath the watchful gaze of an unseen moon. Here, I scribble the secrets only the map knows—a cartographer's kindness to those who dare to dream whilst awake.
The roads lead to nowhere and everywhere, binding the hearts of wanderers. Perhaps you too will hear the whispers that twine through these notes, guiding your unseen footsteps.