Once upon a timeless blip, a clock ticked not with seconds but with gossamer threads of forgotten whispers. Its face was a mosaic of fleeting shadows, time unfurling like a butterfly's dance.
In the cathedral of absent presence, where echoes of the unfinished hymn lingered, stood the clock. It whispered riddles only the dream-dust could comprehend. Here, the room did not spin, nor did it stand still; it simply was, a paradox wrapped in velvet.
The clock spoke to the dreamer, whose name was lost to the annals of cracked reflections. "Time is a beetle," said the clock, "skittering across the vast sandscape of universe’s tablecloth." The dreamer blinked, understanding that the beetle carried not minutes but the weight of existence itself.
And then, a door appeared—a portal to another day that has already begun. Beyond it lay corridors lined with mirrors, each reflecting a different version of reality, none of which contained the dreamer. Instead, they held stories untold, of seas that whispered, "You should not have entered."
Enter the Labyrinth of Hollow DreamsIn dreams, the door never closes. It swings inwards, outwards, and sometimes just vanishes. The clock, now a part of the scenery, hummed a lullaby of fragmented absence, sung by invisible choirs of moonlit gods.
And so the dream continued, unwrapping itself like a gift that was never meant to be opened. The dreamer smiled, a reflection of a reflection, in a world where time was not a thief, but a benevolent trickster.