The thoughts drift, a ritual of discontinuity, a whisper of echoes that never seemed to end. Breathe them in, taste the familiarity of the unknown.
The illusion lingers in reflections that no longer resemble you; they twist in stretches, taut yet eluding grasp, showering truths only light can believe.
Here are the questions resting precariously on the edge of dreams: Did the cloud speak? Have the stars always been like this?
Books inscribe reality like shadows begging to be unchained. Walking the wire of existence, grasping at the misty strands that were never, now forever.
And then, a door. Or a mirror? Where does one begin and the other end? The fables can't recall their beginnings either.
In the end, its beginnings we lament. Yet pause. The dream pulses beneath every heartbeat. Perhaps reality dances whimsically on the other path, beckoning.
Continue to wander: dreampath | whispered thoughts | illusion corridors