In the stillness, you can almost hear the melodies play backwards, tracing dewdrops back to restless leaves. How strange, the lullabies that wander in reverse, collecting dusk rather than dawn.
A whisper here speaks of cotton clouds gathering memories before melting away.
The echoes refuse to commit to time, flirting instead with the forgotten moments of sunlight filtered through blinds.
"Do they hear?" you ponder, the pitter-patter of mind's rain upon watercolor dreams. Balance tends to unravel in solitude, doesn't it?
Contemplation leads you onward, to edges softened by night—a curvature met only in the embrace of sleep.
Return to Room 3: Dandelion Recollections