The whispers of the elder moon spoke of forgotten tides, the way they washed over the shores of consciousness in relentless waves, leaving behind treasures and shards of silver dreams. The stars blinked, an ancient language, a secret held too tight for too long, unraveling only in the quiet corners of an edge-of-slumber mind.
Electric jellyfish drift in the void, illuminating thoughts suspended like rain on the autumn grass, each droplet holding a universe within its phosphorescent grasp. There in the tangled web of 3 a.m. musings, visionaries paint the skyline with nonsensical graffiti, each word a portal, a chance reunion with astral companions in a place where time was never a straight line.
An echo of an echo, a laugh in the depths of space, twisted into a spiral staircase that leads down to nowhere yet feels so familiar. Shadows dance an errant waltz, chasing their own silhouettes across the infinite canvas of night. Once, we spoke their language, now all that remains are these luminous figments, hovering on the edge of a waking world.
Venture further into these realms: Phantom Theater | Fragments of Truth
And what of the clocks? Do they still tick with the rhythm of a forgotten heart, or have they succumbed to the lull, unwound and scattered like dandelion dreams on a mirror lake? The answer dissolves in the afterglow, as real as the myth of the morning that nunca comes.