Whorled paths echo through forests of thought. Listen, the whispers start to fade.
The river of forgotten names courses with silent screams. A name—drowned by pressure.
Cogs in storms grind down the stars, but logs remain untrodden—untouched.
A flicker of memory lost; a log, a dream, unraveling the mat of existence.
They wrote their truth in a language of stars—celestial glyphs engraved in voids.
The puppet master stirs beneath the forest floor, roots weaving the hidden pattern.