The winds whisper secrets to those who do not listen. A place with nowhere in mind, where ink dissipates like fog.
Parchment unseen, carried by shadows, listening to silent echoes beneath streetlit skies.
There are footsteps: perhaps yours, or, maybe not. Silent narrations walk parallel—to return at random.
As you follow each print, they submerge deeper into nothingness...
Once, upon a time, forgotten inks whispered: the pages turn. An unknown atlas you chart within dreams. Find the monochrome meadow, blooming in shades of unwritten noise.