At the edge of dawn and dusk, there exists a twilight zone, neither day nor night, waiting in stillness. Here time wavers, a fragile dance that beckons travelers without ends, with loopholes ever opening...
Consider the following: if echoes were alive to contemplate their existence, would they wrestle with their own infinities, reliving their sound in endless corridors, seeking meaning in repetition's chains? The threshold hovers; it allows.
Crossed paths in dreams appear, rearranging like celestial puzzles. In shadows, discussions of missed opportunities linger, written on fog-drenched glass by hands desperate to leave tales untold… But are the stories mere illusions?
Solstice comes twice a year, yet never the same way twice.
The threshold, an ancient door, creaks with whispered tales. Imagine a passage connecting every thought to its satin partner in sleep, where one recounts midnight promises, and the other envisions dawn's embrace. But who fulfills what dreams ask? Is it the moment's invention, or the night's error in judgment?
Portal Journal