In this realm, even shadows possess a form of self-awareness, silently critiquing the silhouettes cast upon their ephemeral stage.
The moon hangs low, a satirical orb, mocking the sun for its diurnal arrogance in a dance of irony beneath the star-studded sky.
Time, that reckless artisan, chisels delicate fragility into the sculptures of destiny, an ironic twist to eternity's narrative.
Here, revelations slumber, awaiting the audacity of dreamers to decrypt the whispers serenading them in slumber.