The clock spins backward in whispery twirls as the hands transform to silver reeds. The moon unrolls its carpet sky, inviting celestial wanderers to come stroll between the unseen constellations, unseen yet by mortal gaze.
A violin laughs in distant skies, each note a sprinkle of dewdrops gleaming like fireflies in a transparent meadow of forgotten thoughts. Hold fast the moment, where gravity relinquishes its embrace, and the horizon sways like emerald waves on a translucent sea.
Somewhere a whisper echoes: The arc is bending,
but echoes only awaken those who sleep beneath the mossy stones the snails call home.
Unearthly caverns harbor secrets of timeless lullabies, visions of
fortune-tellers weaving vines of time itself.
Into the Phantom Dream | Where Stories End | Chasm of the Cloud