In the dim light of a fading afternoon, the dais appeared as a forgotten relic, its essence entangled with echoes of conversations never had. Here, on the precipice of reality, we found the secret garden of our permutations. It was a place built not of stone and mortar but of whispers caught between the strands of a quantum web.
Walking towards it, the crunch of forgotten paths beneath our feet seemed to fold time neatly. The dais started to hum—a resonance of shared breath, uncut by the knife of space. Encounters awaited, with the heat of brushed fingers lingering like traces of stars pulled into orbit by a dreamer.
First Grove | Quantum Dreams Journal
And if the winds of yesteryears were not strong enough to tether our sails, we might have else penned a letter stitched in the quantum creases of space time—a note that reads like a song on the cusp of a lonesome leap.