The ocean's whisper folds into the origami of forgotten dreams, the frothy crests murmuring secrets to the sky. Why, I wonder, does the moonlit tide speak in riddles?
In the crook of an ancient oak, a slumbering owl dreams of the stars it has never seen, its wings carrying the weight of the cosmos.
The forest is a library of unspoken stories, where the silence reads aloud tales of shadow and light.
Upon a silver staircase, thoughts tiptoe with velvet slippers, ascending to the attic where forgotten melodies hum in the dust-clad corners.
In the marketplace of forgotten souls, a vendor sells echoes—a currency bartered for memories lost in the fold of time.
An hourglass effervesces time in molten sighs, each grain an epoch, each tick an eternity. Does time sleep, I ponder, when the stars glance away?