Perhaps it was the gentle pulse of the cityscape, familiar yet elusive, like the fading aroma of dream-bound coffee. Stretching thoughts across paper pages, a trace of déjà vu lingers, whispering secrets caught in the ink of drawing shadows.
Have you heard the clock that spoke in riddles? Its hands chiming on an unknown past, where every tick expands the universe, folding memories into origami sails.
Inside this labyrinth of graphite veins, we find ourselves traversing streets named Nostalgia, under skies painted with echoes of half-remembered dialogues.
Spinning the Echo Nocturnal Journey Eternal ArrivalEyes closed, we sail the ink tides—where thoughts become constellations, mapping the silent echoes of our return to the canvas, to the endless drawing.
There lies a path, yet to be walked, in the whisper of graphite rain. In its descent, the world forgets for a moment, and we remember, and we forget some more.