In a world wrapped tightly in cellophane, every dream flickers just beyond reach. The whispers of reality escape the transparent barriers, a music heard but not understood. Beneath this fragile film lies an intuition so fierce, so raw, it cuts through the plastic veil like a knife.
Walking down this corridor of dreams—each echo a promise unfulfilled—I feel the weight of unseen visions pressing against my skin. They wrinkle the air, much like the whispers of ghostly hands tracing paths upon a frozen landscape. There is fear here, but it is comforting. Out of reach yet always within arm's length.
Every step reverberates through a maze of shimmering potential. What is reality if not this fleeting dance with the intangible? The cellophane binds and liberates, an illusion of control. And perhaps that is its magic, its fearsome beauty—a dream that both is and isn't, all at once.