Tick. Tock. The rhythm of the unseen, unseen yet omnipresent, it dances through the auroras hidden under layers of thought and time, whispers questioning existence and purpose. The minute wraps around an idea, an echo of a second long past, lingering, only to be swept by the fleeting hour, a continuous cycle of being and not being. What do these hidden colors seek to reveal?
Memory drips like dew drops on a spider's web, glistening with the promise of clarity, clarity that dissolves under the first light of skepticism. Pressing thoughts, seated within cogs of a clockwork mind, shifting like shadows cast by a flickering candle.
Dreams are but radiant whispers caught in the ether, a mist of auroras hiding between breaths, slipping away with the dawn of conscious thought.