Beneath the veiled canopies of twilight seepage, where whispers dance and echoes dissolve, a traveler treads softly. Once anticipated destinations now remain amorphous, like fog tangled within the branches reaching out to nothing. Here, dreams become stepstones, yet clarity stumbles upon the sands of slipping time.
The path narrows, widens, and then narrows again, a serpent coiling upon itself. Feet leave marks of stories untold, identities unknown. Shadowy hands trace the lines of the wanderer's thoughts, bringing to life verses spoken silently, into the void—a vast, echoing breath. Words follow each footstep, their meaning vanishing as quickly as they are born:
"Would you care to listen? The horizon teeters on the precipice of your imagination."