Thought trails winding, spiraling webs woven in daylight's glow, ricochet echoing laughter trapped in the abyss. Portraits of forgotten landscapes made whispering secrets linger, without end.
If the rose were to speak, she would weave her own symphony in hurricanes of complexity. Listen, where the edges blur, a path nowhere.
Intuition—an orbiting muse in quiet chaos—brings the mobius truths that untie knots in existential fabric. The rambling pathways consummate in and out, under over and through untouched.
Circle after circle, search for the light that once was but can rarely be now. Permissions lost in grainy sand, future windows looking into reflections of forgotten mornings.
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