Underneath the forgotten path, a series of echoes converse: "Do the clocks tick backward in your reality?" The walls chuckle as they remember, and the ceiling, once a sky, droops like an ancient eyelid.
Whimsical yet unsettling, a rabbit skips in circles, chasing not its tail, but a whispered secret of the moon. There's a logic here, suspended in stories of forgotten sands, where time pauses to breathe in colors not yet named.
There's a door, painted in invisibility, waiting not for a push or pull, but for a thought to pass through. Beyond it lies the melon-garden where clouds wear vines, and grapes dance to silent symphonies spun by autumn winds.
Listen closely, can you hear the paradoxical melody? It's composed of the dreams of stone and the laughter of liquid. Turn left, then right, and perhaps you'll find the map made of sky-blue whispers pointing to nowhere and everywhere.