In the void above the willow-trees, a whisper twirled, its name lost in the fog of time. "Tell me more," the fish implored, "of the mountains that sing in colors." Of course, they were silent, for that is the way of things that sing: to sing without sound, weaving symphonies in hues unseen, yet deeply felt by the soul's ear.
Travel to echoes, where time folds like paper cranes upon the sea. Discover the tales the night forgot, tucked beneath the dreams of wandering foxes.
An owl's riddle echoed, asking of the flute made of starlight and shadows. "Question not the answer," the old sage chuckled, "but listen to the absence of question." For in the labyrinth of unspoken truths, absurdity reigns supreme.
Catch a glimpse of the whispers that dance on the edges of reality, where nothing is as it seems, and everything is but illusion's playful jest.