An echo distorts down the alley of dreams, where reality's tapestry begins to unravel. Listen... and the whispered chants of forgotten truths caress your ear.
The moon, a crooked seam in the fabric of night, smiles wistfully upon the weaver's disarray. Stars stitch themselves into stories, flashing glimpses of unspoken words hidden in the daylight's covid fabric.
Entwined in this lattice of illusion, the seeker pauses: Recollections whisper portals to self through shadowed corridors, guiding fragmented thoughts into the pattern they once were.
Under the illusion of distance, footfalls emerge with tardy urgency, tracing the contours of a destiny unrecognized until now. Spinning, spinning, they fade into an eternal thread.
Dreams splice into reality, where the boundaries of time dissolve, leaving behind a gleaming tessellation of forgotten paths.
Will you walk them? Or weave your own pattern? The choice is a mirror, reflecting back not your own, but what was, what might be.