In the echo of silence, questions whispered softly graze the edges of sleep's fragile walls. Am I lost in this realm of dreams, or free, suspended between the waking hours?
The ideal sun, not yet risen, paints hues invisible to eyes closed tightly against the dawn. What is the purpose of a dream but to weave realities from the threads of desire and fear?
Voices of yore echo back from the caverns of an uncharted mind. Are they truths disguised as memories or mere deceptions hiding beneath the skin of a waking illusion?