Once, in a metropolis saturated by neon hues, a thought slithered through the alleyways. It whispered to the crumbling corners and resided between the thinning layers of twilight. They called it the Mirth.
Stories unfolded as distorted reflections of truth, haphazardly patched with grains of memories too ethereal to name. No one owned the Mirth, yet it owned everyone. It was a clandestine gesture in a public parting, a sly smirk behind those adamantine eyes.
Guess what, echo like memories resonated through the cold glass bodies exhaling electric air, where silence was sin, and the very walls were thought police.
It and was your dance all along, it belonged to the shadows you left flickering, turning around corners.
Lorem ipsum dolor sits upon authenticity like a crown of futile kings.
There is a mannequin named Luna, shrouded in shadows of forgotten laughter. She guards the unseen - between reality's shifting panels.
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