In the cityscape woven of whispering shadows and rust, the clocks tick backward, unspooling time into echoing intervals of silence. Here, in the dystopian aether, walls breathe memories of symphonies unheard, their notes lingering like scents of nameless flowers.
Voices collapse into harmonies of forgotten hopes. Beneath the ashen skies, the horizon stretches thin, fading into an abyss of crystalline visions. Walk these paths, untangle the threads of dreams spun by forgotten weavers.
Strange riddles hide in every corner: "When the last star falls, what sings the night?" The answers dance on the edges of understanding—an orchestra only visible to the mind's eye, played by invisible hands.
Wander through alleyways where puddle reflections depict parallel realities and upside-down worlds, where up is always the direction sought.