The ember whispers secrets, curled like smoke against velvet shadows.
Crimson laughs echo in the corridor of dreams, where illusion is the only truth.
"You are the dance of flying stars," she murmurs telepathically, "and I am but a hollow laugh."
The jester’s tears blend ash with the light of unseen dawns, writing destinies in forget-me-not ink.
Even the mirage of eternity cannot escape the shimmering paradox.
Between every heartbeat, the silent wind wails secrets only the ancients know.
The world tries to swallow its own tail, exhaling purpose behind its facade.
Floating narratives collide with threads of sugar and steel, tilting perspective in perilous reverie.