In the quiet obscurity, there lies an echo of dreams half-formed and shapes that resemble shadows because
a whisper of the past lingers, carried by the winds of yesteryears.
Something felt... not yet words, but a longing wrapped in layers of
thoughts drifting like ethereal fog; touching the mind's edge, yet receding as if hidden behind a veil of
mysteries, not to be grasped, only to be
As day turns to night, the familiar landscape becomes unfamiliar;
the boundaries of reality and dreams blurred into a soft haze of
replacement or continuity. What is? What remains?