"Do you hear the colors dance?" she asked, as orange flames turned violet in the star-drenched dusk.
His thoughts tumbled like marbles scattered across a mirror, reflecting an unspoken language of shapes.
"Perhaps the universe dreams in hieroglyphs," he murmured, eyes lost amidst the celestial tapestry.
"Gravity is the flaw in our art," she replied, stepping lightly on the rhythm of nebulous echoes.
Their words floated, defying the matrix of time, an ornate latticework stitched by unnamed deities.