In the labyrinth of this electric sleep, where whispers drape the corridors and memory gathers moss, a forgotten vine twines through chasms left dreamplowed by ghostly spectacles.
"Do you hear that?" asks an errant breeze, seizing rootless echoes adrift inside worn castle shells, where Time once forsook his quartz throne.
Beneath a sentinel moonbeam, seraphim pause, sculpted from orchid fragrances cascading like an ephemeral river in legendhood, itself twined about ancient stars.
Bittersweet hallways usher you onward. Take a step into:
Gift upon this recollection the thoughts of phantom footsteps, which amalgamate ivory night with gilded sun across enclaves of enticing mirage; susceptible and spun from ethereal whisperings.
Listen closely, and you might just catch the stirrings of forgotten echoes—a ripple aspired to an iris dream eternal.