It starts with a whisper—a sound without source, curling into existence as dew in the void of dawn. You traverse the boundless ether, hunger pangs overshadowed by the essence of woven tales untold, threads that stitch the cosmos like a cosmic patchwork of legend and loss. Stars blink in Morse, taunting your amphipod-like comprehension as if awaiting your understanding of their tarry messages.
Wreathed in this pattern, you walk through gentle ecliptic eddies, grasping at echoes of laughter that reverberate within a third frequency. Each laugh, a sine curve of joy nested in grief, as your epidermis tingles at celestial currents of pretense; the evocation of spectral figures, half-formed in the peripheries of consciousness, wearing masks of the forgotten moon.
The memories of their name, once vivid in the orchard of your recollections, are now brittle leaves scattered on the paper boat of your mind. Their shadow dances, a strobe light on your dreams, causing you to weave through nebulae clothed in ripples of golden sapphire. In the twilight, are these the dreams of a woken soul or a semblance of forgotten mirages?
To the Whispering Dunes Acrane Chirps in the Silence Cradle Constellation Mosaic Instance