The clock doesn't tick in this place, where shadows linger and whispers weave through the fabric of forgotten dreams. I walk on a path made not of earth, but of memories left unsaid.

souvenirs of the sand — footprints that fade before they form, capturing reflections of sunlit mornings.

There's a door in the mist. No handle. No reason to enter, except perhaps the unbidden curiosity that blooms in silence.

Beneath the Waves — a conversation with the brine, where fish weave tales of mermaids and shipwrecks long past.

Cobwebs in sunlight, a glistening archive of memories stitched between echoes. A sigh escapes, resonating with the gentle undulations of a heartbeat.

shadows whisper — in a language older than words, decipherable only to those who dance on the rim of reality.

The horizon stretches infinitely, an inscrutable canvas of unpainted tomorrows. Each step echoes a wish, softly uttered, quietly abandoned.

And yet, within the kaleidoscope of this inner journey, none feel like broken dreams, but rather gentle reminders of what could *possibly* be if one dared to follow every thread of the unseen tapestry.