Once upon a fleeting sunrise, the lost garden bore remnants of a conversation. It trickled through the eons like the laughter of stars, quietly weaving forgotten truths into the loamy soil of reality. Here, time did not march – it swirled gracefully, like rustling leaves that artfully refuse to cascade.
There were whispers on the edge of tides known to have been dreamt. They told tales surreal yet naively recognizable. An old child's game perhaps, where rules lie upon layers misremembered, stitched yet fraying, ceramic at the core. "Can you touch what you can't see?" it asked within the shifting stanzas of twilight.
Within and without, nuanced shades of dusk dared to ripple. Another memory spoke of doors. Doors only, atop horizons where fingertips traced something left uncounted, unclassified, and yet amid eloquent silence profoundly known— understood.
Yet it was not destination they yearned. It was the gentle grasp, the passing of shadows caught…in forgetting. That first glance anew destined to remain beyond lucid, amidst orchestra tones conjuring a symphony of dust and gentle desire.
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