In the corridors of night, where whispers are dreams' remnants, they linger—phantoms of forgotten echoes.
Every sigh a piece of unraveling silk, every shadow a memory misted over with dew.
A clock without hands ticks on the wall of your perception, the hours slipping like sand through your grasp.
Shadows speak in tongues unknown, revealing the unrevealed; a boat adrift, seeking shores of memory.
Lost between the lines of an unread letter, the ink waits, silent, for meaning reborn in slumber's embrace.
Waking and dreaming, interwoven threads, a tapestry unraveling into a mist of faded echoes.
Imagine walking beneath the twilight, where phantoms weave their stories, and the streets are paved with questions
that linger, unanswered, on the lips of an unseen world. Step through.