Thoughts spill like silver threads across the boundless loom of night, weaving destinies in whispers. An open door waits.
Dreams dangle just beyond reach, suspended in the frosty air like lanterns bobbing in a dusky mist. They hum a tune half-remembered, tinged with longing.
The mind's echoing corridors stretch endlessly, bifurcating at every lost moment, the past a river, the future a sea, and here, now, the confluence as vivid as a star's flicker.
In the garden of midnight shadows, where reality shivers beneath the gaze of the moon, the doors stand ajar, inviting footsteps cloaked in mystery.
What awaits behind the threshold of sleep? The answers whisper in crumbled parchment, in the language of forgotten tomes.
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Listen to the echoes resonating even as the silence deepens. Each heartbeat matches the pulse of the universe, a rhythm of creation and dissolution.
Portal dreams, upon closer inspection, appear to be mere reflections in puddles, mirroring not the sky above, but the soul within.
Return Through the Labyrinth