The fragments whisper behind closed eyelids, static lullabies that hum beneath the surface, gentle murmurs of forgotten yesterdays. Corners of reality, broken, mended but misshapen, cradling the unspoken truths that hover in the interstice of dreams and wakefulness.
In the garden of shadows, where echoes dare not tread, a serenade of silken breaths caresses the moonlit dew. Are stars merely reflections caught in a web of slumbered thought?
The clock ticks only for those who dare to listen, a requiem for the temporally-aware. When clocks sleep, time folds in on itself, creating a tapestry of stillness that is both comforting and hauntingly eternal. Echoes of the past dance in circles, weaving narratives that have never been written, yet eternally exist in the ether.
Mirrored Dewdrops