Among the shadows of forgotten thought, the whispers dance like moths to a flame. A tapestry woven from the silk of absurdity, each thread a tale untold, each knot a revelation unspooled. The clock ticks backward in the hall of mirrors, where reflection counts not the face, but the soul.
Beyond the horizon of reason, a garden grows—its fruits peculiar and beguiling. Trees with leaves of shimmering silver, roots that dig upwards into the sunlit sky. The air is thick with the scent of paradox, sweet like cotton candy, yet heavy like the unspoken words of a thousand prophets.
Seated upon a throne of stacked books, an oracle types furiously, her fingers a blur, crafting sentences that will never be read. She writes of an orb, and of visions trapped within crystal prisms, speaking in tongues long forgotten.
Beneath the surface, the echoes resound, rippling the fabric of time, a cosmic drumbeat heralding the dawn of the absurd.
And in the end, what are we but echoes ourselves? A symphony of voices in a grand orchestra, the conductor a madman with stars in his eyes, waving a baton of illusion and reverie.