In a place where echoes breathe, the whispers of forgotten truths hang heavy as moonlight on a fogged-up windowpane,

Did you ever dance with dust motes, swept up in the comfort of sunbeams that insist on existence?

There's a voice that murmurs behind every reflection, but it never quite makes sense, does it?

Outside, clocks tick backwards, their hands tracing circles on the air, as if chasing the wind's forgotten past.

The room expands, deflates, and redraws itself as you step with the echo of footfalls that sound like they belong to someone else, somewhere else.

What happens when dreams intersect with realities shrinks and bends, like strange serpentine shadows on a Morocco bazaar tapestry?

You've got to ask the question: Is this now? Was it before, or is it somehow after?

The universe permits this dance of time to happen, a lapse in the linear, a breath held between celestial notes.