Beyond the veils of waking lies the serenade of slumbers uncharted. Where moonbeams twine lovingly with the thoughts of yesteryear, and love letters float upon the eddies of melancholic rain. It is here that kingdoms of specter and shadow convene in curiously chaotic acclamation. "Nomad's lullaby," they whisper, rippling the fabric of imagined nights.
A place where reflections bow solemnly to their own distorted imprints, and the corridors echo with cries of jubilation unheard by the sleeping soul. In the fog-salted gloss, even time confesses its fragmented sanity.