Drifting through the corridors of an ancient mind, the light flickers—a forgotten echo. Trail of glimmering breadcrumbs left by ghosts of past intentions, whisper...
They speak in languages of color and fragmentation, fragments, luminescent particles weaving oaths to forgotten realms.
I witness a dance—a shadow puppet theater of the forgotten, concocting stories without beginning or end. Bright abyss ahead with no way out, just spectral paths unraveling underfoot.
Nostalgia recollects unfathomable bliss. The whispers become a torrent—fear of knowing, dread of understanding the incomprehensible.
Echo and resonate, pulse beneath the surface.
What lies beneath the mask of the ordinary? What vibrates at the core of your dreams? Clarity looms, only for a moment, impermanent, fleeting:
Enter the unknown or linger on the threshold.
In the distance, a glimmer—uncertain, shimmering. You reach out, but it dissolves into mist, a mere suggestion of... something.
Whisper echoes across time, reverberating through the epochs of unspoken truths.