Remember the rhythm of forgotten echoes: the whispers from the deep chasms of your mind, where flickers of your existence take form and dissolve. Here, the moments collide, layering and melding, one upon another. Time breathes differently in the corridors of our own design, shimmering like so much dust suspended against a glassy void.
In the brink of twilight, a sound reverberates, an echo of synchronicities: were we, at once, the summation of our desires? The dreamers caught in the web of simulations, fraying like the threads of spun glass, left unguarded in the spaces between heartbeats.
What walks the edge of dreams but fragments of a lullaby? The soul’s oracle reciting the incantations that wound the fabric of reality: “I am here; I am here, yet lost.” Make sense of the disarrayed mind where every thought births tenfold. A strange alchemy, where everything converges.