Beyond the glass sea, where echoes dance upon swirling clouds, the road veers right, yet left whispers sweet nothings that never were. Step lightly, for the sun sleeps beneath your footsteps, storing warmth in dreams.
When you find the fork made of silver whispers, ask not of the route, for direction is a mere illusion, like moths drawn to candles in an ancient library. Tread softly upon the petals of imaginary roses.
Soon you will reach the portal guarded by the three silent foxes. They know nothing, but they know everything, and to pass you must hum the tune of a forgotten lullaby. Its notes are trapped in a bubble perdition, somewhere over the rainbow's doppelgänger.
Venture further into the webbed night until you stumble upon Mothwhisper. Or perhaps the Dreamtrap will ensnare your wandering spirit.