The clock ticks backward, its hands eroding like memories against the tide. In the stillness of this distorted time, shadows speak of peace yet leave trails of incandescent chaos.
Here, illusions reign beneath a sky of forgotten colors, where horizons stretch infinitely inward and outward at once. The sound of whispers become the essence of visible decay.
A solitary figure walks on paths paved with mist, each step a note in a tune only the stars can hear. Do you see their truth, or are you entranced by shadows of light?
The leaves of the ancient trees—once green—are now memories of what was. They scatter lightly underfoot, each whisper a fading echo in the expanse of your mind.