In the echoing chambers of yesterdays yet to come, one finds the whispers of forgotten futures.
The stars align in familiar patterns, tracing constellations they’ve never drawn before.
Is it now? Or simply never was? The paradox finds solace in its own complexity.
Let the tendrils of memory grasp what is ephemeral, the scent of a dream persisting like an echo.
As clouds moor themselves upon still seas, shadows of their own creation, a lighthouse has begun to hum an ancient lullaby. Listen with the heart.
The tapestry woven from the ambers of late autumn, where leaves are but echoes of light, leaves hanging on an unfinished note. See the unseen.
In the garden where time holds its breath, roses whisper secrets to the wind. Feel the silence.