The clouds descended, not showering but whispering secrets of void and echo, brushing past the tangled dreams. In the air, a scent of forgotten kaleidoscopic memories lingered, each a fragment of colored past.
Blue shadows danced across the walls of perception, reflecting narratives untold, woven into the fabric of nighttime's embrace.
A flicker, a pause, a silent scream sowed with the mist of the yesterdays, as laughter and solitude tango on the edge of oblivion.
Watch, as the horizon weeps crystalline tears, a symphony of the unsung verses and the voices of the stars.
The clock never sings past midnight, does it?