The bowls are full of lavender breath. Disparate colors of lost greetings swirling within the-looping cascades of thought. Perhaps the mirrors won't speak today. Plaid whispers flickering like ghosts in an unknowable reality.
Care to taste a drop of forgetting? Unravel the cosmic yarn, each thread a fragment of déjà vu woven into velvet curtains. Sift through the sands of Yest-air, count the stars trapped in paradox.
Echoes of Sound lead the way into the maroon twilight. Shadows dissolve into petals, a dance unseen yet felt in the vertebrae of the brown sage.
Check this dream: Jars of Echoes. How many decrees before dawn passes judgment on cobweb paths?