In the hushed recesses of an eternal twilight, my spirit dances; a flicker amid the expansive cathedral of starlight, tracing ephemeral arcs against the vast satin veil of space. Such are the moments where ceaseless tides of thought ripple across the aether, knitting and unknitting thecosmic whispers.
A myriad of mirages conjoin the path. Beneath their insubstantial sheen lies the echo of footsteps not my own, yet familiar as the mourning song of a distant nightingale. Its melody weaves like a secret among the clouds, unveiling the lightwaves' solemn truth. Here, waves of light wash over recollections, painting things unseen.
Each echo, a transient message, each lightwave a shimmering caress upon the brow of the unturned stone. Many voices speak in this sylvan echo chamber, yet only the heart understands their language—a lexicon spun with lavender and threadbare dreams, twilit and unvoiced, yet powerfully present.
And in this reverie, I ponder—what brings us to this shore? What unseen currents guide our vessel upon this sea of whispered shadows? All questions render as mere ripples upon the grand cosmic pond, fading into stars.