Dream Weavers

In the celestial loom where stars whisper secrets to the void, dreams are spun from silken strands of twilight. Each thread, a narrative woven into the fabric of the universe, dances beneath the watchful gaze of distant comets. The weaver, unseen yet palpable, whispers tales of what could have been, leaving imprints on the minds of those who dare to wander in their slumber.

You stand at the edge of this tapestry, fingers brushing against the coolness of infinity, feeling the stories pulse beneath your skin. There's an echo, a note from a phantom limb reaching out in the darkness, yearning to touch the memories that were never yours. It is a gentle lapping against the shoreline of consciousness, a reminder of forgotten realms stitched into the very core of existence.

Each dream, a note harmonizing with the silence, resilient against the passage of time. They linger, like the taste of a word left unspoken, in the spaces between breaths. And as you step closer, the strands pulsate, a heartbeat thumping softly in the veins of the universe, calling to you in a language elder than time itself.