Once, stars were told to fall, not by gravity's relentless tug, but by the seductive call of silent autumn.
Here, we find the silhouettes of dreams, cast not by the sun, but by an invisible light since befriending darkness was more chic.
The heavens drip audacity, and the ground hoards irony like a dragon's treasure amid autumn's prance.
If souls have itineraries, they penned the detour themselves, skipping double-dares in abstract constellations.
Stars fell today like distant echoes, unchanged by landing, unchanged by sight.
Enter the Labyrinth of Lost Light