In the hours before dawn breaks beyond the horizon, there exists a pause. A breathing space, not in time, but of perception. Here is where the dreams, as echoing whispers woven in night-cloud mist, reside.
Remember the tree with silver leaves that sang your name? It stands quietly behind a wall of thought, waiting as it always does, to be recalled in stories untold. You pass by it, daily, yet never stop, as if some unseen hand prevents your lingerings. The fragments you once gathered, fallen like leaves in autumn.