Between the thin veil of the waking world and the shadows of slumber, lies the pantheon of dreams untold. Here, echoes of soft murmurings linger, remnants of a life unlived.
In the alcove of memory, the reflections are phantasmal — shadows dancing on the edges of recollection, whispers tracing the forgotten aurora of our past selves. To hear them is to grapple with echoes, soft as the wings of moths at twilight.
Once upon a dew-kissed waking, a voice spoke through the winds, casting spells upon breadcrumbs of nostalgia: unseen sawdust filling the empty spaces of existence, a cosmic utopia adrift in a sea of stars.