In murmurings of etched reverie these lost paths appeared, carved symphonies playing in the air, strings humming with static emotions. Where do we go when we forget our dreams before the morning steals them, like abandoned whispers and echoes unanswered?
The streets had a name, but the name was forgotten, overgrown with vines of what could have been, shadows stretching in concurrency with imagined links to other realities. Come find yourself here, amidst twilight choices, listen to the beats of Fibonacci and the Fibonacci of beats, an invisible compass guiding your way.
Hold the fragments dearly, scatter them across the canvas of thought in serendipitous chaos:
- Cupboards stained with ages untold
- Quartz reflections on paper leaves
- Umbrellas inside bagpipes
- Windstone poetry hung in the cusp of silence