Are we not but motes, subtle fragments cast adrift in rays of forgotten sunlight? Time folds at the seams, whispers woven into the very fabric of the air, fragrant with the scent of yesterday’s dreams.
The clock ticks. Or does it pulse? A heartbeat in the shadows, cradled by the soft murmur of an eternal dusk. Dust dances, ephemeral ballerina pirouetting through the dim-lit ether.
In the distance, a memory hums—a lullaby of forgotten lands where reality bends and breaks like the gentle smash of sea against unyielding stone.
Traverse Echoes, find solace in Shimmering Memories, or lose yourself in Labyrinthine Dance.