Within the echo of morning light, I once walked a pathway strewn with autumn leaves —
a bridge above waters unseen. The whisper of your laugh caught in the breeze,
but who were you, really, in the cradle of waking hours?
You remember the old clock tower, don't you? Its chime resonated through the veil of night,
marking moments like constellations in our forgotten sky.
"Time is not real," the stars murmured, as we slipped through the cracks of reality.
In that forgotten library, we found pages torn from dreams,
words dancing in cursive scripts under the watchful gaze of opalescent owls.
Do you ever wonder what stories lived before us,
ancient truths hidden in the fabric of illusions?