In the quiet corners of dusk, when light surrenders its dominion to the mystery of shadows, the whispers gather a form - ephemeral yet palpable. It spins tales from citadels of thought, where prisms of refractive reality bend, allowed by the heart's yearning. Did you hear it? The echo of forgotten dreams, cascading like a waterfall taming silence to a whisper of white noise...
Threads spun from moments tinged with wistfulness, they wander through the alleys of time made momentary, invitations glimpsed through webbing in the veil of sleep. The dawn flees from every decision left pending in the anchored boat adrift. Places never arrived - mere illusions sprawled as maps drawn incorrectly - unveil the phantom with its soft cry harkening eternity.
Awake to Dreams or, perhaps, Follow the Echo. In either way lies the confrontation with what is enduring beneath the transient.