In the void's echo, where the silver fish swimming upstream, the wordless dialogues of shadows commence. Hearken to the whispers.
Around the lunar gaze, a frog reclines upon impossibly heavy sonnets—pondering the weight of dreams, as stars unravel their forgotten histories. The wind's laughter haunts the craters where silence once reigned.
Imagine a clock that ticks the rhythm of cosmic lullabies. Do you hear the horological serenades, or are they the confessions of time, weeping in its celestial cradle?
And the rabbit, silvered by moon's decree, burrows not in soil but in the folds of the universe's fabric, stitching galaxies.
If you must speak, let it be in the tongue of the nebula—words spun like strands of stardust, sentence spun like the weaver's loom in the glow of a world yet seen.
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