Somewhere between the ripples of reality and the still lagoons of memory, lies the half-formed thought of an ancient dance—echoing in shadows, wearing veils of vaporized dusk.
Voices, not of mouths but of mindscapes, weave tapestries forgotten by time. The unraveling begins when one doesn't look, following only the sound of a gaze. In this misted twilight, whispers etch stories with no beginning or end, obscured by the silken thread of dreams.
Explorers of the unseeable, seekers on the brink of the unsensed—what do these phantasms murmur into your frail auricle? Each sound, a footprint on the sand of the intangible.