In the abyss, thoughts refract like shards scattered across time—each reflecting a moment once known yet shrouded in forgetfulness. Whispers of the collectors reverberate through hallways lined with memories.
A glass of dreams sipped under a swirling void, each taste sets thoughts adrift; they crash against the shores of uncharted minds. "Who are we amidst the silence?" they ask - ripples catching color from lavender gusts.
Hand in hand with shadows, one steps gingerly across labyrinthine echoes where every sound bounces back—laughter twisted serenely, coiled around lonely shadows. Yet, they twist into the essence of a fleeting smile, shadowplay on a monochrome canvas.
The clock it keeps. Ticking towards a past unseen, light and, for a moment, the dreams burst within to light the path crudely forgotten.
Counting wings of forgotten birds, they flee into the whispering skies that crumble at dawn’s touch—the ritualistic silence encased in emerald hues stirs the liquid night, rippling like the gentle caress of a moth's wing.