Beneath the lloren canopy, where light travels in fractured rays, whispers from the cosmos weave tales untold.
The old satellite dish at the swamp's edge still tunes to a frequency long out of touch: echoes ripple, dance, murmurs.
Alien whispers say: "The path is clear if you see through the haze." Follow if you dare.
As extraterrestrial tendrils push through veils of night, questions hang like constellations in waiting. Interlude waits, forever in orbit.