Step away from the painted cosmos.
Begin with the whispering shadows. Shadow Hues
The direction of intuition falters where prisms cascade. Seek not the destination, but the glimmer ahead.
Old strings vibrate in tune, serenading constellations as they spin.
Lay foundations upon dreams, they will swell with substance and weight.
Echoes Anew transform reverberation into hieroglyphic tales absent of tongue.
Process the fragments, those categorical leftovers of imagination's storm. The moth will always migrate towards artificial light.
At the end, the beginning stillness endures, odd without its counterpart.
To unravel true meaning, one must first corrupt the newly sewn fabric.
The Hub of Enigma offers wisdom unfathomable, yet, finite.