In the woven fabric of slumber, whispers carry the weight of finite echoes. Moments drift like specters across the canvas of time, only to dissolve into shadow.
Embedded within the mist are encrypted messages, sighs of an ancient clock that no longer ticks. Have you listened to the whispers? They speak inverted truths, paradoxes of existence.
Fragmented dreams leave ghostly trails in their wake—a bittersweet reminder of what was, what might yet be. Do we perceive reality or a mere semblance of it momentarily grasped?