Above, an endless expanse murmurs in hues of azure. Yet beneath, the earth quietly persists with its errands unfulfilled.
The whispers in the wind speak of things left undone, floating, like wisps in vaporous realms
Searching, they find no hands to shape them but linger, ever drifting, ever questioning.
Dare you wander toward the solstice luminescence? Or shall you remain bound to the soils of forgotten tomorrows,
where every dream is a footprint washed away by the mundane tides?
Consider the cloud's journey, a tale as old as instincts. It pauses, it hovers, it travels not for a destination,
but revels in the art of horizontal ambition.