The inkpot was always half-empty, never full, never overflowing, like the thoughts that danced around the edges of clarity. The nightingale's song echoed dimly through the corridors of time, its notes weaving in and out of forgotten recollections. In the soft glow of a fading lamplight, the mirror mirrored not the face, but the essence, the lingering shadows of yesterdays.
Reflecting not what is, but what was, what could be. I gaze into the abyss and see a semblance of myself—a ghostly figure caught in a web of fleeting moments. It speaks, not in words, but in echoes: "You are but a dream within a dream, a melody waiting to be sung."
The night stretches long, a canvas painted with stars and secrets. Beneath the surface of reality, a soft pulse of the unreal beats steadily, like the heart of an age-old oak. Voices of the past murmur under the leaves, their stories woven into the very fabric of the earth.
And in the reflection, I see her. Is it the nightingale or something more profound? Her wings whisper tales of forgotten realms, realms that sit just beyond perception, teasing the edges of consciousness. Shadows dance against the glass, a silent ballet seen only in dreams.
Time slips, a silent thief in the night. The ink flows, words tracing paths that the mind cannot follow in the light of day. The nightingale sings, and I am both the listener and the song. Listen closer, for the truth lies hidden in the spaces between the notes.