Somewhere in the gentle ripple of the unseen current, thoughts once buried churn again, cloaked in the mist of forgotten light. I remember... or do I dream? Water flows over the pebbles, sings a forgotten lullaby. Do these shadows sing?
Strange fragments dance across the mind like sunbeams splitting through a canopy unshed. An unfinished sentence murmurs, locked away in a hidden vault: "underground springs whisper, yet...
The waters hold the past lightly, like a parent lifting a child’s secret. Do these echoes carry our shames or our praises? The words bubble beneath the surface—a waiting horizon of silken mysteries...
Once, long ago—before time’s edge frayed—realities intertwined, told as fables in the hushed tone of silt-draped stones. The tale of the mirrored sky where fish spoke to gulls in the watercolor dusk of evening... Let the breeze decide legacy.
And still, the waters wane beneath the night’s tender embrace. The side of dreams where no one remembers how they arrived, for the journey is silent, save for symphonic whispers.
The frosted edges of cognition fade into nothing, tales etched in crystals—a time must come, or already hath, when all secrets confess themselves to youth, obscured only by blinded reverence...