Cruising through the nebulae of matter, we dance behind curtains not woven of fabric, but glistening shards of dusk.
What is the length of a shadow that casts no more than a whisper at noon? It stretches, contract, symbiotic with time itself, pondering silence's paradox.
Have you heard the memoir of kaleidoscopic whispers? Forms of Time, they resound.
And so, there lies the cryptic frost: dew upon waking grass, sulking, yet vibrant amidst the gray. Taste the scent here: memento fragility.