Among the dust of obliterated echoes and silent tears, they lie in wait, darting at the edges of definition, flitting through veils of absence. Glimmers of laughter bubble forth from dark wells cooled by time.
What is the color of despair? It shifts, like autumn leaves sifting through the twilight. One here is confronted by bubbles of existence, each fragment a semblance of clarity amidst flourishing unrest. Traces of another life linger amidst an impending void, solitary and impermanent.
Covered in dense fog, the fragments punctuate rhythm like staccato whispers. To peel them reveals shadowy sculptures—below, beneath, involving depths uncharted. A mere clatter of somnolent spectres trickles in disbelief.
And yet, what is nostalgia but recuperation of a misplaced memory, peering into the abyss?! It is a conversation with yourself in fragments of lunar eclipses, as ephemeral as whispers carried by decayed harbors—always spectral.
Traverse into the Dreamscape to construct your own memories.
Or, touch the unraveled whispers in the Anatomy of Lost Stories.