In the garden of murmurs, an echo stands sentinel, watching the kaleidoscope of wings forget their shadows.¹ Long ago, the river spoke in tongues forgotten by the stars, and a truth emerged, dancing on the edge of the silvery haze.²

When the clock strikes that unseen hour, will you orbit the whispers, or will they orbit you in return?³ Through the alleys of cognition, every step a ripple into the abyss of lucid dreams, every pause a portal unto itself.⁴