The whispers of damp stones tell tales of forgotten dreams. Identify the color of silence and paint it. The reflections ripple, distorting the truth, yet revealing more than what lies beneath. Was it autumn leaves or the echo of a spring kiss? A tune played by the rushing water, unheard by those who stand still.
Somewhere, a clock ticks backward, unlearning the hours. Here's a thought: write a letter to your past self, but do it in the future. There's a fragment of a memory, a glimpse of a face—a stranger in familiar clothes. Sometimes, the river flows through us, carrying our unsung songs to the sea.
Wander further into the moonlight pathway or stand under the floating stars.