Looping is the very core of dreams, an endless thread wrapped around the spindle of sleep. It entwines stories lost to rationale, retold, reshaped, remembered for a blink—but only to dissipate, like fog on a warming morning. The lunatic, with wide eyes and restless heart, embarks on a voyage between slumber's arms, where every cycle is both revelation and recursion.
To understand dreams as loops is to grasp the ephemeral and the inevitable. In each night’s embrace, narrative threads tangle; reality weaves with fiction, blurring the seam. Lunatic tales unfold, perhaps, like a madman's scroll, inscribing truth within the layers of fantasy. The cycle desires to be dissected, spooled out like yarn, revealing secrets of the universe, confined to the dark corners of subconscious states.
Occasionally, the loops break, yet when they do, they do not end—they shift. The moon’s glow sharpens, pulling back the veil for an instant, and the dreamer awakens, dazed by insights veiled by their own perception. The whispering patterns, as murmured by the lunatic's caged intellect, suggest a cosmic rhythm, orchestrating the spheres beyond human ken.