The figs grow heavy with laughter, dreams spilling like forgotten candies in the quiet corners of nights where shadows play spooky tag. And across the languid skies, soft voices rustle secrets between the stars: “Would you hold my hand while we chase the moon?” What a shimmering path it must be, where unicorns dance to symphonies of echoes.
Beneath the whispering trees lay crumpled letters from past lives, etched tales of peculiar journeys—oh, the glow-worms must know! Then there is a teacup, spinning tales as fleeting as the mist, painted with the smiles of antiquated dreams. Why do the owls hoot just beyond the veil of dreams? Tell me of the figment that curdles the milk of daylight.
Look closely and behold—a figure draped in shimmering gossamer, smiling through turquoise skies. Each laugh a ripple on the surface of time, each sigh an invitation to uncover infinite labyrinths that twist in simply glorified dust. The world fades softly, like a child's forgotten lemon candy.