“Have you considered trading your shadow for a feather?” she asked, sipping pixelated nectar.
“Only if the feather whispers secrets more profound than my shadow speaks,” he replied, half-asleep.
“In the realm of forgotten alphabets, do vowels ever dream of consonants?”
Amidst the aetherium fog, reality twisted as words danced and thoughts spun webs.
The cascade of illusions flows, where every droplet refracts truth in ironic HDR.