In the hushed corridors of the mind where echoes pretend to sleep, shadows cast not by light but by untold stories linger.
A mere whisper of a once radiant vignette, dimmer than dusk's embrace, cradles fragments of dreamlike wonder.
The stars, they faintly sigh, peeling the veil from reality's visage. As the crescent howl of the wild night serenades brave voyagers adrift in the sky's sea.
Mariposas, they call, as they cascade in silver trails — ephemeral flickers bound by the twine of forgotten laughter.
Whisper, soft as a tentative dawn over chrysanthemum fields, whispers sweet ignorance, until revelation's dagger pierces the twilight fabric.
Phantasms dance through lattice vines of memory, tracing figures on parchment skies with quills made of stardust.
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