In the hollows of twilight, forgotten dreams linger like moths to a flame. Each echo, a relic, dances upon the breeze— fragments of tales once woven with sunlit laughter, now ensconced in the shroud of dusk.
Fables slip through cracks in reality; shadows murmur the names of those who wander, weaving destinies in the labyrinth of hesitation, where paths diverge like adrift feathers, absolutely nowhere to settle.
A conclusion that is never concluded, lies hidden beneath fragments of prose not unlike the sand slipping through fingers; echoes of absurd parlance, phantom whispers persevere.
Left behind, the hush of memories disguised as an ancient treasure for the seeker, eternally waiting at the doorstep, cradled by the flapping silence of moth wings.
Where do these fables live? Underneath the half-moon glow, curled within the silken embrace of shadows invited by dusk, perhaps they reside alone on a bookshelf of misplaced yearnings.
Come, traveler. Slip away into the folds of solitude, uncover what is not yours to find— it waits in the quiet recesses; a tapestry woven from the thread of forgotten sights unseen.