Streams of dreams, floating, whispering, drifting through the quiet night. They flow where thoughts do not dare, tracing paths invisible to the waking eye. Each drop a world, each ripple a story. In the depths of the stream, the echoes of what might be. Hypnotic the streams, their murmurs soft and eternal.
Water flows, water knows. The essence of dreams is to flow, to drift, to weave through the fabric of sleep. Waking to find the streams have whispered secrets of the stars, messages from the universe, forgotten and revered. Rivers of sleep, silent witnesses to the mysteries unfolding within the mind's eye.
The tides of dreams are akin to the tides of the sea, both governed by forces unseen. The pull of the moon, the call of time slipping through the sands. Time in dreams is elastic, stretching and compressing as the streams coil and uncoil. Remember, the whispers say, remember the path you walked beneath the stars.
Reflections on Silver Bay Murmurs of the Past