Ephemeral Sylphs

Whispers? Or was it echoes? The kind that dance just outside comprehension, tickling the spine like a forgotten secret, invisible and persistent like morning mist wrapping the world in uncertain embrace.

Chlorophyll dreams intertwine with neon shadows; a tapestry woven with nightingales and desolate clocks. Tick tock, tick tock, the sound but not the motion. Here, the beneficial poison speaks in riddles, an incantation striking harmony with chaos. Listen.

Memory fragments scattered across this virtual visage, seeking solace in the unknown. Luminous pathways drift beneath the surface, unnoticed until the sycamore whispers sweet nothingness into the void of afternoons.

Unspoken agreements between the earth and the sky; did you hear the syphs' song or was it merely an illusion, a mirage blooming on the horizon of consciousness? Imagine a world where rustling leaves convey ancient truths in their swaying language.

Tread lightly over the cobwebbed memories, for the sylphs guide you through their ephemeral dance, an intricate ballet of gossamer threads and stardust. Your steps echo in their language, "We are all but echoes in eternity."