In the endless corridor of echoes, where footsteps fade before they land, a feather falls – downwards, upwards, sideways. You wonder: is it the story being told or the tellers who weave through the ethereal branches, careless whispers tangling like vines above wood-silent hearts? Beneath the surfaced thoughts, elusive, transcendental. Is it real or the dream looking around, observing itself in the quiet mirror of a placid stream?
Blue-green undulations pulse beneath the sapphire sky, remnants of a storm forgotten, unfathomable depths. Eyes blink. Questions without bodies dissolve into the auroral haze, a whisper from beside, no one around. Filtering through, carrying centuries yet unknown, embracing time even as it shatters into pollen and ash.
The universe breathes between the lines of a diary left open in the moonlight, silver droplets inked on imagination’s page. Explorations drift unhindered, looping arcs in verdant shadows. Touch the corners of this world... Or do we only touch its impossibilities?
Clouded Minds' Reflections