In the corners of forgotten streets, there lies an echo of a tune once familiar—a melody spun by gilded phantoms who pirouette in gaseous spirals. Their laughter is a clarion call to the past painted in sepia tones, where memories sit like stubborn guests at an old dining table.
Flicker and fade, the lanterns dim in the great hall, casting shadows on faces imagined and real. Enthusiastic zephyrs sweep through, carrying whispers of nostalgia—vagrant stories, unmoored joy. Dance to the heartbeat of silken night, abandon the tether of now and laugh with the ghosts of then.
The carousel rotates beneath a velvet sky, creaking with the weight of longing. Colors blur and stretch, reminiscent of childish dreams where even the wrinkles of time smile in gentle dissent. The tabernacle waits, an amphitheater of ardor—a pavilion hidden from cynicism's gaze.