Beneath the ziggurat of invisible desires, an arena fashioned from shimmering dreamscapes and salted aspirations—steps taper softly, endlessly into the echo of night's ledger. Elders speak softly, their words trapped in nighttime's weave, these sounds slipping through fingers like liquid stars.
Shadows, ever-present, skate across the oscillating fabric of yesterday, tomorrow—a bridge whose arches are made of monsoon sighs. Each relentless whisper asks, who presided over the invisible sunset sculpted in glass?
And so, time fractals, echoing identities without origins, beneath a sky lingering in yesterday's crimson brilliance. Watch now here and observe the dance of sacred mirages.