The prism splits into seven, like thoughts diverging in twilight. Where do angels rest when the sun sets over monochrome waters? Is it here that the seven succumb?
- Somewhere, a butterfly questions the meadow's asylum.
- Streams of electrons whisper sweet nothings.
- The rain dances with neon dreams beneath suburban skies.
Enter the Silent Lake
Random wanderings unmask unforeseen realms.
Setup a dialogue with tranquility.
What if serenity had a metallic taste?