The stars align but are out of place, their dance a reflection of a forgotten lullaby that echoes within the chambers of solitude. Orbiting memories of small joys, lost amidst the vastness, a constellation of past shadows weaving through the fabric of night.
Did the moon speak to you? I heard its voice wrapped around the edges of dreams, an echo of a whisper not meant for waking ears. The tide pulls the mind back, forth, a restless sigh in the invisible current that knows no shore.
Do you remember the color of your dreams? Violet fog, cerulean mist, the unseen paths in the garden of thought, where time folds like origami. Each crease a memory, each unfolding a revelation in the silent stadium of the cosmos.