The echoes in the halls of this enigmatic realm spectrum-where once dew-drenched echoes clung to marble like whispers now time stretches like gum beneath a desk—rewind and replay each sordid syllable long past the point of feverish decay. Eyes opening to rooms overflowing, yet empty—with ghosts wrapped in threads of potent lavender floating past, a medley of forgotten giggles papering over paper walls.
An ancient clock ticks never, never here—its sand-soul drifting a starry desert, each grain crystallized at war in isolation's bourbon. Seek not its sanctuary, for minutes pour freely from the abandoned crown, seashells nested closely atop shattered throne-reserve, permeating all else with ocean's breath.
Would you pretend to peer through the blindfold? Slip into daisies and weightless dreams, a corridor lit by submerged wishes, or perhaps ascend to skies tangled in laughter, each step adorned with figment laughter—an embrace of quiet pandemonium waltzed atop eternity's forgiving indifference.