Behind closed eyes, the framework breathes — timber stretching toward unknown ether. Dreams leak like broken faucets, and each drop a twisted echo, haunted lullabies once sung to sleep the goliath. Wander past columns of longing and touch things never meant to be touched, making tinctures of starlight and unshed tears spun into gossamer threads. Is this a maze? Or just a thought stretched too thin across one tile of the celestial railway? Clockhands pointed nowhere, time bending here, breaking there — curators of the handbook of dissonance. Reach the horizon or so they sing, holding currents in their breath like paper boats in a storm's unending dialogue, the turbines weaving an unfinished story. Could you lay the fabric of night upon the skin of mountains without soul-searing secrets unfurling beneath chilled moon's watch? Somewhere in the interlude, ask yourself — is completion located here or in the shadows cast by nonexistence itself, drawn long along unwritten histories? The stark harvest arrives swift upon the wing of touchstone truths, played like notes invisible to eyes oblivious of waking. Piercing the temporal loop — what lands you clutch now? Hear old forge fires whispering embers into darkness: rekindle the echoes of morning's forgotten promises, weave time into tapestry again anew. Yet hands remain — restive relics of such tender embrace, but another echo fades as twilight eats away mayflies constructed of sacrosanct dusk. Perhaps, tomorrow?