I fell from a cloud, a solitary bead of dew, seeking the earth beneath, yet one of many in the universe’s grand choreography. The wind cradled me softly, urging my descent through a tapestry of misty blues and grays. Whisper of the skies, they call it.
Below, the world cradles secrets, and I long to weave through these stories as threads through a loom. The ground is distant, but I am not lonely. I am drawn to the flight of the dossier moth, its delicate wings tracing patterns in the air.
I coat the moth as it rests upon a fern, crystalline and transient, my touch fleeting yet profound. It shivers in the coolness, yet finds solace in my presence—a bond formed in the ephemeral twilight. Dream of wanderings, they call it.
The moth stirs, unraveling threads of its own narrative. It dances into the embrace of the night, and I am one with it—a shared journey across the weft and weave of existence. Time is a curious construct; solace found in transformation, in dissolution, in the becoming of something more.
As the dawn stretches its fingers across the horizon, I dissolve into the air, a whisper in the wind. Yet, somewhere in the fibers of the universe, our stories are entwined—a raindrop and a moth, a dance of moments and echoes.