They coalesce in silent murmurs, the fragments of yesterday's dreams dissolving like forgotten echoes. Here, in the cradle of light, where shadows retreat but momentarily, the world breathes anew—awash in hues of amber and crimson.
Time, a mere suggestion, lingers at the edges of perception. What is the hour, but a dance of light across the faceless sky? I find comfort in the glow, an ethereal hug that knows neither warmth nor chill, yet claims me wholly.
Where do the stars hide when day breaks? Is it an obligation they flee, or a pact whispered at the end of night? I ponder such things as I drift through prismatic veils, detached yet entwined with the cosmic rhythm.
Reflecting Surface - watch as the water captures what words fail to hold. Flowing Thoughts - a current beneath consciousness, it speaks.
The golden hour bears no witness to my solitude, and therein lies its magic. I am both observer and observed, a silent note in an ever-expanding symphony of dawn.
As light weaves around me, I forget the chase of time—a fleeting idea, a dreamer's lament, tamed by morning glow.