Envelope yourself in the haze of somnolent solitude, where clock hands are unwound, soothed by the echo of burgeoning destinies. Stars intertwined, stitched into twilight—hidden echoes spin lethargic tales of frozen promises...
What dreams float in the gutter, waiting? They murmur, linger, folding fabric notes of sweet resentment, vibrant sticks of candied longing awaiting the draught smells of ribald ambrosia—succulents leaping across the edges of lavish dreams.
In a dance of rustling pages never turned, ambipleasures linger around lips quenched with unaged wines and the depth of enamored gazes, electrified with unanswerable questions tracing the intimacies of shadows and silhouettes.
Meld your afternoons into an echo of serpentine plazas and aquamarine kisses escaped from seafarer's chests of rests—unorganized fragments of brightly blushing innocence lie trapped under the cobblestones.
Encased in wooden bowls woven from reflected memories—stories bated with unpondered dreams, yearning beneath serene moonlight.