Once, when clocks wore the faces of departed kings, I stumbled upon a tavern hidden amidst the dance of shadows. Its walls sang with the whispers of the first light, and there, a chalice awaited. A golden rim home to whispers from yesteryears, I took a sip. Instantly, the tavern transformed into an amphitheater of old, where the sound hailed the dawn and dusk intertwined eternally.
With every drop, I traversed another echo of yesterday's promises. There, whispers told of violin strings that wove silk roads through forgotten lands, binding travelers not to their destination, but to each other across endless ages. I heard tales of mariners whose hulls were stitched with dreams that broke upon distant stars, of paths in forests that abandoned their treetops in mid-sentence, trailing vines with unfinished conversations.
The chalice granted a fleeting perspective; I saw the elders as children dancing around bonfires, their laughter mingling with the sound of forgotten winds. It was then I understood: time is but the pulse of the choir that sings in spirals. Yet every note struck a different constellation, shaping harmonies unrehearsed, wandering through galaxies untamed beneath the hair of a cosmic being.