A drapery of shadows stitched into the fabric of consciousness, the ink does not dry; it spills into pores of memory.
Oh, the silent print of dreams unfurls as echoes arch like wings, casting specters upon the horizon of the forgotten. They linger, they melt.
Can you hear the perfumed whispers of time, as they flutter endlessly, scribing tales into the dusk? Once vivid, they fade like a myth wreathed in opalescent gossamer.
Links to other realities: