The compass spins, unwinding threads of existence, a mapless journey across the skies of forgotten dreams.
Log Entry 042: The waves of time carried the shimmering echoes, each star a cry lost in the void.
A flow of colors, an astral dance; the darkness cradles the light, as time folds upon itself like worn parchment.
The grapes of starshine, silently falling, tasted only by the travelers who dare to wonder.
When the moon aligns with the echo of sunrise, shadows jump between the strands of remembered laughter.
Day 31: The lost hour slipped through fingers of twilight, a treasure unearthed only by the dreamers.
Connect with fragments of the past: Murmurations | Lost TCP