"But when do we breathe if shadows consume the daylight?" she pondered, brushing silver strands from the awning of uncertainty.
"Perhaps breaths are illusions," he replied, the syllables mirrored in twilight's abyss.
"Is reality real, or a shattered glass of fading memories, waiting silently?" her voice trembled against the veil of dreamscape.

"To chase meaning is to grasp at echoes," whispered the voice only half-formed, carried on a zephyr that felt eternally close yet reverently distant.
"It's all about perception and its faithful allies, intention and solitude," remarked the observer unseen, reclining in the calm chaos.
They said, "Inside quartz caverns of celestial twisting, truths resolve with laughter. What is real will always be, they discard no burdens."