Flashes of prismatic glow cascade down the slopes of thought, like phosphorescent waves against the grain of reality. Is it night? A quiet scream of stars, their slim, shimmering trails igniting the dark with silent yearning; in pools of forgotten memories, the universe exhales, revealing secrets of colors we dare not name.
Drops of luminescent ink spill across time’s page – the hour hand spinning into an infinity, curling our mundane leaps into the ungraspable expanse. Patterns dance between dips and crests, enticing the onlooker to dive further; patterns of matter coalesce, reflecting thoughts lost yet comforting in their familiarity.
A heart beats beneath the skin of existence, surrounded by wild, technicolor dreams and the whispers of sleeping giants. When the flesh drifts, it swims with galaxies swimming back, as fireflies roam the void searching for places like home, constellations tangled in wistful reverie.
What happens when a black hole decides to sing? Echos stretch, reaching forth to summon the forgotten. Time clinks, residue of luminous breezes morphing into tangled webs, revealing a chord. Dance, weave the dreams into the fabric of night, the chill of an unborn dawn waiting just beyond comprehension.