Amidst the forest symphony, echoes play hide-and-seek among the arboreal giants. Voices murmur, tangled in sylvan riddles, an ethereal dance in motes of dust.
Boundaries blur as I tread the mycelial webs of ancient thought — footsteps absorbed by mossy memories. Echinacea blooms in the horizon of my mind, a spectrum of forgotten hues, mingling with the shaded verdure.
Constellations of the underbrush unfold; I am both wanderer and song. The fae beckon, their laughter a crystalline echo that splinters time itself, weaving a tapestry of lunar whispers.
Relief comes in beams of sylvan light, a gentle touch upon the brow of urgency. Foliage collects in layers of shadowy repository, a refuge for the errant thoughts that spark and scatter like stardust across the woodland.
Chase the Echo