They say the clock strikes thirteen at precisely eleven o'clock, unfurling tales of time woven in silk, dangling above a crumbling abyss.
Ink spills spill secrets. Midnight contraptions whisper ceaselessly; it's the sigh of worlds forgotten amidst fragmented dreams.
A tapestry of lies spun with emerald threads, shimmering under the weight of a thousand futures. Can you leap through the portal?
Somewhere beyond the pale horizon, beneath autumn-laden deception, a tangible reality slips through cupped hands.
Glances exchanged on smooth river stones lead to alleys cloaked in velvet shadows, where daylight fails to pierce the enigma.
Flickering candles on windows brim with dreams of wandering cats, a stark rebellion against linear confines. Where goes simplicity when chaotic elegance reigns?
The dog barks thrice in unison echoing forgotten languages. A symphony of forgotten futures, repetitive and hypnotic as a winding sheet wraps around.