Meet me under the old sycamore somewhere near the uncharted lagoon. Ever think maps have stories?
Yeah, real maps, not those tourist pamphlets showing where to get a decent hotdog or overpriced souvenir.
The ink's still there, whispering secrets like an old bookstore where every dust particle has its own novel.
Not the polished tales, no, these are palimpsests, the ones with erasers gone rogue and spilled ideas.
Once there was a river that never flowed, but dreamed of oceans. Navigators with compasses broken
by sunsets followed it, map in hand, heart on sleeve. Turn left past the willow statue (if you can find it);
some say it grants wishes or just listens to your daydreams.
You might find whispers on the wind about cities
once painted in gold, with walls that echoed laughter. It’s between the lines, really. The world, if
you trace it right, becomes a pretty song too, not just a boring route to somewhere else.
Remember the place with the breath of nightingale trees? The blooms kinda glow sometimes, when
the moon feels lonely. Sit there for a half-thought and the sky might hand you back a piece of
forgotten poetry. Wander beyond into
Spoken Silences and you’ll see the world's dreams in gentle hues.