In the hours when the world outside breathes softly, I find solace among the withered pages of my dreams. Each page, a memory, worn and delicate, whispers of paths not chosen, words unspoken.
Do you remember the autumn leaves, crisp and golden, that danced in circles before us? A fleeting moment captured in amber, now a shadow flickers at the edges of my recall.
Invisible ink traces the outlines of conversations once vivid, now mere echoes barely touching the skin. We were explorers of the intangible, gathering treasures of thought like moths to a flickering flame.
Shadows lengthen as I contemplate the labyrinth of my own forgotten dreams. Each turn I take is accompanied by the echo of a voice, calling from the recesses of time.
Can you find the old carousel in the misty clearing, spinning slowly beneath a twilight sky? A whisper of nostalgia rides on its gentle motion, a song in search of a listener.
Take a breath, dear wanderer, and let the dream-vortex reveal what lies beneath the surface of the waking world. There, in the soft murmur of reality's edge, you may rediscover the beauty of what has been forgotten.