Lorem ipsum came under a cloak at midnight, when whispers took the shape of stars. A portal known as the silver mirror, always feeds on twilight thoughts, left ajar.
Eager footsteps echoed in kilometers of pearlescent stone; metallic glances danced on their dreams. "Tread carefully, in these halls of the wind," said the ghost-watchman of daring's quivering realm.
"Do stars speak to shadows or perhaps the foggy drapes we wear?" A question loses syllables, in jest or song, meant for only slumbering wolves to snare.
A small figure caressed the whispers of time, knitting pathways between realities. Oh, what consenting silences you leave behind, child of night clouds!
Looking for a horizon that never begins, parables of dusty twilight whispered. Their lullabies now:
Fear of Shadows
Only an echo can remain, waiting silently for dreams to wake.
The garden was wide—a cosmos until touched. Yet surely it's real until they look...