In the abyss of jotted musings, echoes whisper through the folds of existence. An old clock ticks backwards as ink dances along the ethereal margins.
A spoon bent like a question, held tight in the grasp of a sleeping moon. On silent pages, the words neither spoken nor heard—they drown in twilight jungles.
A murmured riddle behind a curtain of rain: What sighs without a face when dreamwords wander?