In the corners of the mind, where shadows of the forgotten dance, a whisper of past tides echoes. You remember the color of forgotten seasons, like a film reel spinning in the obscure attic of the soul.
Imagine the clock, its hands obfuscated by clouds, counting not time but breaths. Each second a wish unkempt, each minute a sigh.
The garden of dreams, where every flower is cast in the twilight of longing. Petals drop like memories unwritten, scattered in the winds of a waking dusk. Beneath the veil, a question lingers—one you dare not voice.
Wind whispers through the eaves, a sound that isn't a sound, a place that isn't a place. Follow the echoes down the alley of tomorrow, where every step is a question without answer.
Have you seen the shadows dance beneath the streetlight? Their performance, an ancient rite, tracing stories of the night upon the cobblestones. And you stand, a silent spectator.
Press the canvas to reveal the secret colors: