In the soft haze of distorting memory, there lies a realm untouched by the passage of time.
Shadows dance across murky pools of consciousness, whispering secrets of stories read long ago and dreams that never were dreamt, before fading into the quiet hum of existence.
Remnants of our yesterdays linger in forms unseen. Touch them, and feel the echo, the faint perfume of an illusion.
A child once whispered to the moon, asking it secrets; but, only silence answered, wrapping around her dreams like gossamer threads—delicate illusions.
Past Murmurs