Once when the nights were young and shadows danced freely...
"215 +/- grid echoes," whispered Luna Ches, her fingers tracing invisible paths through starlit purple haze. She paused often, listening to the echoes of far-off laughter.
They say the key lies in those gentle murmurs—patterns resembling ticking clocks, pasting over lost moments—a moss-covered forgotten doorway leading to nowhere.
3, 2, 5: twist to unfold; 4, 6, moonlight—there, the stepping stones quiver under the soft laughing winds.
Drink the air, a sip of cloud's passage, taste sun’s echo fallen on night’s museum of mist. Breathe slow; moments fold, waiting for the jigsaw to breathe light.
The lands under endless roku and phonons hold the simple, yet complex fervor to unite all thoughts. But only if you chase the tides of four silent noons.
Skies unsaid but echoing the Sunday sight, beneath sound's sober canopy, where mysterious hearts ride whispering giants to the dare of unfound lands.