In the whispers of dawn, the clock doesn't tick but hums a forgotten tune, echoing softly the rhythm of past and present, not quite future, an illusion, yes, but charming in its dissonance.
Shadows dance on walls, painted with the colors of dreams, while outside, the rain refracts truths into prisms too complex for comprehension, yet simple, too simple.
Voices in the ether speak in tongues of yesteryear, weaving tapestries of memories unmade, threading through the loom of time, a fleeting glimpse of what was and could be.
The ground beneath feels familiar yet foreign, an endless pathway of shards reflecting an illusion, an ever-forthcoming realm where reality bends, meets, and sways with the surreal.
Whisper of Silence Echo of Reminiscence Vision of Clarity