To the left, where shadows laugh in whispers beyond the foggy veil, take not the path of blaring trumpet calls, but trace the silhouette of forgotten syllables. Listen where the stone circles chant. Pause here; wait for the invisible clock. Then, when the third riddle of light flickers out like an un-poppered corn kernel, turn right into the swirling sugar precipice.
In this space, beyond time's grasp, every step is a phantom's trial, and every turn a leaf unturned in soft silken winds. Should you chance upon a straw hat floating eastward like a lost thought, remember: the journey draws nearer when you embrace the scent of lunar dew.