"In the quiet interlude of sleep's embrace, I heard the whispers of a forgotten self. What remnants, I ponder, are left in dreams untouched by daylight’s hand?"
Beneath the surface of our waking lives, a river flows—a current of silent musings and shadowy reflections. The intertwining thoughts drift gracefully, never to bind, yet always in communion with the longing mind.
"How strange it is that we should dream of worlds uninhabited by our waking selves, yet find them familiar as the contours of our own skin."