In the folds of a fabric stitched by unseen hands, there lies a whisper. A whispered promise of journeys not bookmarked, of realms not yet traversed by waking souls.
Do dreams wear jackets? In the chill of night, when the moon casts silver threads upon the earth, the dreamer pulls it tight, a shield against the waking chill, yet its warmth is inscribed with the tales of stars.
As the dreamer, my thoughts are like moths, fluttering around the lanterns of consciousness. Each thought a chance encounter, a fleeting embrace that fades into the ether.
Am I the voyager, or merely the witness? Perhaps the jacket knows. Perhaps it holds the key to the many doors that my dreams whisper of but never reveal.
Inside the pockets of this cosmic coat, I find the remnants of forgotten laughter and the echoes of ancient songs, binding the universe with threads that defy the known.
And as the stars blink knowingly, I wonder, when dawn breaks, which portal will I have unwittingly unzipped?