In the quiet breath of twilight, whispers form fabric out of stars.
The owl's clock ticks backwards, unraveling hours under hidden rhymes.
Do not follow the breadcrumbs; they lead nowhere. Instead, dance with shadowy paths,
where myths invent landscapes from thorns and dreams.
Voices echo in the hallways of fading memory,
their jigsaw laughter pierces through corridors of endless thought.
Once, there was a kingdom beneath the seas,
glimmering with secrets only the waves dare hide,
wonders crafted by the moon's ebb and flow.
Moments, like scattered leaves, ride the winds of forgotten climes.
Beneath the surface, the questions dissolve into answers that never were.
The silent frequency divides and conquers, in the stillness of quiet storms.
Such is the echo of a dream: unfinished, surreal, erratic—a pulse in the cosmic tapestry.
Listen closely, and the universe sings a song only the wise can hear, a melody of echoes.