The moon encapsulates in the echo of silver glimpses, each metaphor the thread unspooling. Tell me, dear wanderer, in which alley do dreams burrow deep in sleep? Even shadows have a tale to bleed.

Synapses crackle like static apparitions, tremors of thought as whispers claw at the velvet void; the ephemeral cups time in a crooked hand. Refraction through prisms distorts reality, reframing boredom into ecstasy.

Gaze upon the tangled infinity, and what do you seek? Mirrors do not reflect the fact of things, they disguise euphoria in chitters of triviality. The bends of ether ripple beneath this canvas. Where does the fish swim when the pond is still?