Gentle waves canvas maps of nothings left unsaid, flicker into the ether shimmering like bubbles within a distant vesper. Time is akin to whispering curtains drawn translucent across empty rooms.

Clouds drift gracefully—an assembly of wanderers chasing hues indistinct and emotions recollected yet unformed. What echoes in the symphony of waving grass?

Corners of rooms paint shadows that dance into adjoining dreams flourishing in pinks speckled with gold glints. Against those dances, tales reach crescendo yet remain untold, inscribed in starlight across silver dew etched space.