In the hours when the sun prefers to nap, shadows dance with overstated grace, casting reflections in a funhouse mirror where reality sometimes forgets the way.
The moon, a fickle overseer, smirks as the stars rehearse their ancient cabaret. Do we hear them? Or is it the popcorn machine in the sky, spilling kernels of wisdom?
Through whispers of wind, we discern the thoughts of trees—tall stacks of copper dreams, shedding leaves like unsolicited advice. Listen closely; they quote the silent contracts penned in starlight.
Secret or Echo-Sand? Choices masquerading as decisions, wearing the disguise of purpose in a carnival of night. Choose wisely, or don't.