The Veil of Mists

The mist has always been where reality mirrors its distant echo.

In the land of shadows where footsteps count not their own, silence speaks. It whispers of forgotten aether, in pages written by moons unknown.

The clocks tick backwards when no one is looking, unraveling the threads of yesteryears and sewing them anew into tomorrow's tapestry. And amidst this cosmic loom, the mists dance with a spectral grace.

Here, oaether001 speaks in riddles, the tales of circadian chronicles winding through cerebral constellations.

Consider, if you will, the paradox of a door that opens neither way, and yet stands eternally ajar in the hallway of dreams.

Shatter the dream or embrace the unwoken slumber; the choice is a non-choice.

The clock hand sips tea on Tuesday's melancholy, waltzing with the unrelenting spiral of yesterday's tomorrows.

In this space between the known and the oblivion, a single snowflake falls upward, defiant against the cosmos.

Visit forgotten echoes or linger in the now, both are one in the mist's deceptive embrace.