The horizon spills like spilled ink over parchment, a dance of colors that sing songs only the forgotten know. Beyond the veil of consciousness, a whisper beckons—like children’s laughter in an empty house. The sun, a golden eye, blinks red and furious, awakening the shadows that slumber in corners of the mind.
The smell of rain on dry earth, electric and vibrant, spins into threads of forgotten laughter. Each droplet a pearl in an eternity’s necklace, strung across a galaxy of moments lost to the flow of time. Voices ripple through the air, echoing from canyons carved in sleeping sands, secrets wrapped in blankets of light.
In the deepest well of silence, there lies a dream, calling you to plunge deeper, to breathe in the colors that are not colors, to feel the rhythms that are not rhythms; there to lose oneself in the dance of suns and moons, in the fabric of woven night.