The clock whispers its secrets, but the shadows do not listen. They walk past, echoing footsteps in the corridors of thought. What remains unseen? A question hidden in mist that rises like breath on a winter's eve.
Your hand stretches to touch, but the words vanish, blown away like dandelion seeds on the wind. And here, in between moments, the silence folds like origami, a paper crane of forgotten dreams.
Somewhere, a voice calls, through a door that is neither open nor closed. It speaks of places where reality wears a different coat, where the stars rest upon the ground like scattered diamonds. Follow the pathways.
And when you think you are alone, remember the reflections that linger in the twilight—silent witnesses to your journey through the mist.