Compose symphonies from the rustling of the autumn leaves, each note a whisper, a secret sung to the indifferent winds.
The clock ticks, but time refuses to move forward in this tapestry of nostalgic labyrinths.
In the shadows, beneath the arching willow, a parable of forgotten dreams is spun, luminous in its obscurity. The leaves murmur in sentences unrehearsed, unwritten, unwelcome. Yet here they are, tailored by the immoveable hands of time's clock, a paradox flowering beneath the static sky.
Gaze into the rippling distortions of hellos turned to farewells, where words walk sideways to the rhythm of echoing spheres. Pause, ponder, or proceed into this theater of the bizarre.
The tapestry of disjointed harmony: it neither ends nor begins—merely unfolds like a dream minted in reverse. Ever backward: within, outside, elsewhere, always where.