Beneath the embrace of midnight's azure cloak, where whispers of the unseen tendril the air with silent grace, lies a meadow of dreams. Here, upon the ever luminous landscape, the dew weaves poetry of glints and modos.
In the heart of night, the luminescence of predawn fairytales flicker, swaying gently, as if promising tales of forgotten realities. Among the brambles, laughter dances like starlight in amber pools.
Speak not of the morrow, for the morrow loses its meaning in the hazy mists of effervescent reveries. Every sigh, every spark, a testament to dreams woven tightly into the tapestry of night.
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Follow the glow