Dreams dissolve into liquid shadows as our future casts a non-linear arc. Time unspools in echoing alleys under a sun made of whispers. Wandering souls paint the night with lanterns of faded memories.
Reflections in the funhouse mirror tease messages not meant to be understood. "This way lies wandering," murmurs a voice like cracked glass. Reality's melody is played on harps of broken light.
I had a dream where clocks turned backward in silent protest, and lamps bled stories of roads never taken. The answer lies in the spaces between breaths, where existence fades into a tapestry of unfamiliar hues.