Beneath the cerulean dome, where thoughts weave the fabric of night,
there lies the nexus of echoes.
In three murmurs, a dream unfurls — tales of what never was,
— or is it what will be?
"Listen to the whispers of the seashells," they said,
"for they hold the map to the stars."
Traverse the enigmatic paths that dance in twilight.
Follow the trace of a solitary wish that never returned.
The winds hold secrets, ancient and profound.
Step lightly, for you tread on dreams.
In that dimension, time unravels gently,
like the endless caress of an ocean wave.
Each ripple a story,
each tale an unspoken truth waiting to echo.
Embrace the silence where echoes sleep.
And as you listen, remember:
the stars are but mirrors of our slumbered hopes.
In dreams, we are all wanderers,
with whispers as our only guide.