In the corridors of sleep's ancient ocean, murmurs linger like tides:
Wave your hand, watch the veil shimmer, they say, and the forgotten paths reveal themselves. In hushed tones, angels of dreams recite their verses: the acrid scent of imagined coffee, a hint of burning marigold petals, tells of places where we once wandered, pages scribbled underwater lost to time.
Here lies the whisper of stars—for they know how to dream a labyrinth. Footsteps echo on invisible stairs, leading downward, spirals connecting stories we told ourselves but chose to forget in waking.
Dream for infinity, they whisper. The art is in the wandering, not the arrival. The bridge of sleep born anew lies in fragments, each a reflection of the world within worlds. Answer not with questions; let silence be the answer.
Seek the whispers, the threads woven through unseen portals where the echoes of yesterday's dreams hum faintly.
A lamp flickers where the echo of laughter plays, illuminating words never spoken, a journey without a destination—a cycle gentle as the morning dew.
From the ether, we gather remnants—
lost theories draping themselves like autumn leaves on the boughs of consciousness.