In the future, the world spins as a carousel, around and around.
The whispers of ages past echo in the wind, calling softly, calling loudly.
The children listen and dream, as the wheel turns. Click, clack, click, clack.
And in this dream, the sky dances—purple, orange, green—colors not yet known
to man light the horizon. A horizon that always recedes, ever just out of reach.
Cycles of the moon above, cycles of the currents below. The dance remains.
It weaves us together, unravels us apart—a tapestry that seeks perfection in its flaws.
Repetition, rhythm, resonance—a symphony of echoes.
Can you hear it? The distant bells calling, summoning. Can you see it?
The ancient forests yearning for the touch of dawn. A pair of golden eyes watching, waiting.