Oh but the flowers they sing in luminescent greens, threads slowly unwinding, casting shadows not of this realm. Listen closely as the ether hums softly, quilling notes on silk strands of liquid night.
From beyond the fold, where time embraces stillness, a whisper escapes—a constellation’s sigh. Memoirs of a star forgotten in the embrace of cosmic waves, tangled in nebulous dreams.
The clock, a specter entranced by its own echoes, spins not in haste but in reverence for the forgotten blooms beneath twilight. There, the soil breathes stories that never found their destination, recorded only in the tremor of their departure.
The incantation of bygone realms: “Awake, tree of light. Your roots dangle in dimensions unseen, your leaves etch runes into the fabric, a cauldron of memories boiling over in the heart of quantum horizons.”