Feily the mist, softly enthralls the leaf, we dream-dark descend to places unvisited. I am a bead in a ceaseless tapestry, woven by the hand of the varying skies.

In the cradle of vastness, distant markets sparkle beneath the lucid gloom. Silent bartering takes place: stars stored in swan bows. Patrons don the garb of memory, masked in the epics sung by moonlit braids.

Always I spill and condense, each fold a speaking plane of whispered echoes. Sound reverberates back: the earthy heart beats pervasively its hymns of resurrection. Hearken to the edge of this new horizon where rivers scuttle cautiously back home.

But wait. Where does the sea end? A question, perhaps. Adrift. A moment shared with a spark in the darker weave of thread: destined still for destined falls.