Gaze into the moonlit puddle where shadows find solace and whisper the forgotten name of the wind. Stand still and listen.
When the clock strikes triangle, follow the third note sung by the nightingale to emerge in yesteryear's tomorrow.
In the realm where dreams refuse to sleep, align your compass to the southward epiphany of the dormant spiral.
Caution: the water reflects not the land but your eldest secret. Tread lightly, for echoes have a thirst for tales unknown.