In the grove where the whispers of the forgotten breeze weave tales of the night marionette, shadows dance in the spectrum not yet dreamt. Here lies the essence of lavender mackerels that swim through the air in arcs of silver blues.
The sun, a timid egg upon the horizon, seeks refuge behind the velvet mountains. Do you hear the symphony of magenta squirrels? They play the unseen violins that fracture the very seams of reality.
The secret path lies beneath the dew-soaked moss where once a clock was buried, ticking backwards into the oblivion of now. Will you follow the path, the signs carved by invisible hands that speak only in riddles?