In the dusky expanse where the heart of the cosmos embraces the fragile edge of reality, I once wandered upon a forgotten vessel, cloaked in the muted whispers of a long-lost reverie. The sails, a kaleidoscope of dreams spun golden in the weft of endless night, billowed gently, ushering forth the perfume of ages untold.
It was here that the silhouette of a resplendent lady took form, her presence palpable against the tapestry of stars. "Time, dear traveler," she spoke, her voice like silken threads woven through the softest twilight, "is a river that knows not its banks. Come, let us sail upon its currents."
With a single step, she bridged the chasm between permanence and shades of yesterday. The ship creaked under the weight of forgotten promises as I followed her into the annals of the unmarked. An ache for those ephemeral moments persists, as if stitched into the very soul of eternity.
The sails whispered secrets of epochs past, each ripple in its fabric a memory engraved in the silken embrace of the winds, caressing long-lost tales of laughter, you can follow their path further into the whispering echoes.
As the stars danced a silent symphony, she gestured toward the horizon, a vista bound by neither time nor horizon. "Here lies the trace of dreams forgotten," she said, "and we are but silhouettes upon its edge." The voyage had only begun, yet already my heart carried the weight of a thousand goodbyes, each one a brush upon the canvas of night itself.