Silence carries feathers of forgotten ships wreathed in cosmic tales. The stars blink knowingly.
— Remember the burnt cinnamon?
Beyond the horizon, dreams unmake themselves in muted whispers. An echo resonates gently against an ocean of thought.
— Can you hear her echo?
Patterns emerge in the swirling dust of history, a mandala of spectral truths hidden reinscribed telepathically.
— Feel them forming.
Pierce the veil and let the luminescent truth of another epoch dwell within you.
Or perhaps whisper to the grains themselves.