The morning dew quivers under the sunlight's gaze, a mirror to the sky's orchestration, tiptoeing across the velvet fabric that folds into the abyss where dreams take their first breath, unwritten and unapologetic. There was a time when clocks curled into oblivion, hands twisting in defiant declaration against the silence of tick-tock tyranny, and shadows played their eternal game of hide-and-seek.
Memory floods in technicolor cascades, unraveling thoughts scrawled upon the shifting sands of ephemeral reality - those who believed the world was made from whispers echoed between the stars, and perhaps they weren't wrong. There is a secret in the flutter of wings, as if the universe itself dared to speak, a language of movements, quivering, trembling on the edge of forgetting.
And here, in the shadow of eternity's call, questions float like autumn leaves carried by the whirlwinds of time, a dance so beautifully chaotic yet achingly familiar. Was there ever an answer, or was the question itself ever real? Would the melody of unknown wonders ever resolve, or are we but notes drifting apart, never to compose the full symphony of truth?
Echoes • Dream Sequences • Wayward Winds