In the folds of dusk, when the stars begin their clandestine dance, shadows beckon with whispering edges. Time stutters in this twilight realm, a heartbeat fractured yet whole.
Silk-tipped dreams slide between layers of reality, erasing boundaries with gentle insistence. Veils thin, unraveling the forgotten chants that cradle every unmade morning.
Running rivers of thought watch over silent reflections, reflections of an uncharted maze in which steps become echoes. When the moment pauses, the canvas of night drinks every hesitant touch.
Syllables rest on the brink of revelation, whispering mysteries into the fabric of yawning skies. They unwind their melodies, there in that ephemeral cradle, casting glances at alternate wherevers.
When light stands idle, the diaphanous promises drift like butterflies in a world spun from gossamer breath.