Navigate the unyielding corridors of imaginary pretense. To open a door, look skyward and count the painted whispers. The compass you forgot will guide you nowhere—a circle, a circle in the silent dawn.
In the hollow of the unveiled, speak with shadows that once were light. The path unwinds underfoot, yet onward means backward in the language of lost anchors. Here, the expansive dew speaks of unsown truths.