In the land where whispers of color dance and the sun gently does not rise, there are paths so auspicious, they almost take their shoes off before stepping on. Here, the winds carry gossip of forgotten futures and the clouds attend meetings under the disapproval of the moon.
On these paths, the signposts laugh silently while pointing in all directions at once. Watch where you step; every pebble is an opinion of the universe on the verge of collapse — or perhaps a star's desire to reenact its own birth, but only in shadow.
An old man (or perhaps a myth) sits at the crossroads selling dreams by the ounce. "Beware of pre-packaged revelations," he whispers, "they tend to expire before enlightenment sets in."
But fear not the unseen paths, for they are seen by many unseen eyes, guiding the lost with cups of coffee laced with existential irony.