Beyond the horizon where the land kisses the sky, there lies an abyss of whispers, echoes of ink that stain the fabric of time. A solitary figure stands at the edge, peering into a vista untouched by the hands of memory, yet familiar in its essence. The clouds drift lazily, thoughts unvoiced, bound only by the chains of their own making.
In the distance, a silhouette forms—an ephemeral landmark, one that shifts with the tides of subconscious ebb. It is here, in this liminal space, that the true self whispers truths long forgotten, an invocation of long-lost dreams suspended in the ether of what could have been.