The whispers of the ancient echoes calmly drift through the ether. Luminous and perpetually ungrasped, they merge serenely, like the traces of the moon spilling silver on still waters.
Wisps of forgotten dreams linger at the edge, dancing in a peripheral haze. They are the veiled guides, painting ethereal roads along the paths unseen.
A mystical ink spills softly, unfurls a tapestry where constellations bloom in the cosmic garden of the night. Each star a guardian, each night a silent voyage to the profound depths of comprehension.