As the moon whispers forgotten tales to the tide, gentle ripples of existence weave through the fabric of the night. Here, in these twilight hours, memories bleed into the sea of the forgotten.
Fragments of distant echoes reverberate in the corridors of thought—elusive, like the scent of rain that never falls, dancing on unseen winds that curl around the lost moments suspended in perpetual grace.
Time trickles like sand these dunes of doubt, where colors blend into one another, drawing out symphonies in the quiet of a sigh, leaving behind trails of whimsical yearning for a different dawn.