In the deep recesses of your hypnagogia, the forest speaks a language of echoes: whispered promises of growth, elusive secrets of decay.
Are they really whispers, or just echoes?
Behind every rustling leaf, an echo murmurs, reassuring, yet decidedly ambiguous: Delusions await in the underbrush, partially obscured by the fog of irony.
Sip your tea with a side of existential dread while contemplating the nature of nature itself.
Resonances resonate, and echoes understand what we dare not whisper aloud.