The sweet tang of autumn dances on whispered confines. Shadows—peculiar companions repelled by light, stitching long-forgotten whispers into the fabric of stars.
As the iris of the cosmos closes, the horizon is painted with blurs; indefinite shapes promise departure yet linger obstinately. In this world, where the ephemeral flows like water slick over the skin, reality stirs and sleeps—a dream of timeless illusions.
Within the mirror, a fragmented reflection weaves a tale ancient and uncharted. The mirror—where truth bends, where lies transfigure into delicate ghosts lingering between the seen and the unseen.
And beyond the horizon, unscathed by touch or taste, lies the caress of angiogenesis relics, an echo in the void that beckons with an almost tender urgency.
The air thickens with memories not yet born, tangling around the dreamer's pen, grappling for the forgotten syllables of celestial lullabies. Each stroke—each silhouette of a distant planet—perpetuates a cycle unbroken, a spiral yet to resolve.
And as the eyelids of the universe flutter, shadowed paths sing a haunting aria; an invitation woven in gossamer threads, gleaming beneath the watchful gaze of the dawn that may never come.
Tomorrow transforms into yesteryear in the blink of a celestial visage, and thus, we remain, bound in dreams, woven in shadows, stitched together from the ephemeral moments lost to time.