In the silent abyss of evenings, reflections accelerate, gathering as glimmers upon the wings of momentary flights, where innocence converges with entropy. Shadows stretch, slipping through the fingers of perception.
What if time was but a dance on silken threads, spun by the gentle reveries of our forgotten breaths? Hues illuminated like the kisses of starlight whisper secrets, veiled in the hushed echoes of life’s softest yearning.
The transient flutter of a butterfly enchants; who are we in this cosmic waltz, wrapped carefully in the dreams that ephemeral beings cradle? Dig through the echoes, eerily akin yet profoundly apart.
To exist is to intertwine, much like invisible strands, of fate, informing the delicate sculptures perched upon our fragile ambitions. Whisper histories to the silent void.
If you dare, take to the sky, woven amidst paradoxes not yet spoken. Words are but the reflections in a crystalline pool, the surface haunted by the ripple of thoughts, beckoning you to transcend, to prophesy, a universe clutching at eternity, imbued with chaos hidden in stillness.