The ethereal gardens whisper code,
flashes of existence between 0s and 1s.
Listen closely, there lies the pulse of dreams.
Time unfolds in spirals,
a labyrinth built from matrixed futures.
Shadows dance on the edge of your understanding.
A door slightly ajar sits in the dew,
inviting you to ponder the unponderable.
Truth is the trickster, janitor of solace.