Beyond the echoes of forgotten clocks, the sands speak in tongues known only to the deserts; pregnant with eons, glistening under confident skies that barter with the past.
Inward, we wander; past tangible nowheres. In this mirage haven, where time's adipose etches mapcorridors in flesh, let it not flee.
Bring forth the harvest of riddles that besiege our lucid slumber. Volition blooms 'neath arching gaze of frosted antivirus guardians.
Seek the metaphor beneath which slumber achieves nomenclature, bathe in the crystalline infinity...
Echoes of Rain | Labyrinth of Patterns