In the quiet corners of the mind, where reality meets the echoes of what could have been, there lies a place untouched by time. Here, the whispers of dreams unvoiced float like specters, haunting the void with their silent symphony. They are the remnants of your reveries, the soft shadows of hopes once vivid, now faded into the ether.
The question lingers like dew on a morning leaf: what dreams have whispered to you in those delicate moments just before dawn, only to be swallowed by the day? What paths did they propose, what identities might have sprung from their fertile soil, now trampled under the mundane feet of daily life?
"I dreamt of an echoing corridor, lined with mirrors that reflected not what is, but what could be. Each step resonated with a promise, a voice calling from realms uncharted."
As the universe continues its relentless spin, these dreams remain, waiting. Not in despair, but in hope. Perhaps, one day, we shall pause long enough to listen, to gather the fragments and weave them anew into our waking tapestry.
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