In translucent shadows, the clock untangles its ancient hands, spiriling through dreamroads of the forgotten. Pages wait, breathless, for voices that unfurl silken rivers, winding through corridors of sentences never penned, yet always near.
We drift through walls etched with whispers, each lane a doorway to a world suspended in color and rhythm. An unseen bard crafts melodies from dust as characters echo in the twilight, half-formed wanderers of a story yet spoken.
Beneath the archways of slumber, we encounter the Mirage fermata — an illusive pause where time remixes eternity into hues unknown, shadowed writs angrily clasping lethe leaves.