What Dreams Are Made Of (17)

A breath rises, unseen yet vibrant, stirring the sails of imagination. Light cascades in fluid streams, elusive, gliding like a rain of liquid stars. It colors the air with shifting hues and opens passages only the mind can sense. Each spark becomes a fragment of dream, each trace a doorway ajar to the unknown. Shapes intertwine, dissolving into the azure, sketching a perpetual movement. Reds, golds, and violets mingle with turquoise brightness, like a secret language spoken to the soul. Here, nothing is fixed: everything is impulse, everything vibration. This is the essence of dreams, fragile and eternal, watching over both night and day. Yet do these dreams arise from the world we perceive, or are they the original world gazing back at us in silence?