The world is strung on a strand of beads that includes the sun, moon, stars and other planets. A delicate cat's-cradle runs across the surface, a web of power. Everything is connected to the filaments of stardust, the leylines of the world. These leylines can be manipulated through skillful fingers and strongwills. Everything is connected by these leylines, even other worlds, other places, other times. Even dreams...

There are places in the world which should not exsist, but do.
There are places in the world when the walls of reality and dream blur.
These places,
These 'non-exsistences' are only ruled by mind,
And governed by soul.
These places,
They are the Ripples of Eches.

In the endless time without boundaries, tide neither exsists, nor is absent and the waves make etchings in sand that was never there, but alwaysd present.
In the endless place, where 'might-have-beens' are 'what-is-now's, bt might never be; everything is absolute and nothing.
In the endless life, tears have and will not be shed; frozen time and droplets suspended in the air...but maybe are let to fall only to break into a silvery crown before turning to nothing.
In the endless time, even silencee can be converted to music, and pain... pain to joy, but not even the Echoes can change human nature, which is bred strong and true; tread softly, Dreamers who walk the endless placec, innocent eyes and ears do not remain that way forever.

There are people in the world which should not exsist, but do.
There are people in the world who walk the thin line bewtween reality and insanity
These people,
These anomolies, are only mind,
Or are they only soul? Children's innocence,
And adult's gilded dreams...
These people,
They are the Dreams of Eden

Shards of reality, shards of dreams, pieces of a human puzzle, scattered wishings and thoughts. Shattered mind, all but desending all the while flying away up into forever bliss. Tread softly, Little Dreamer, footprints in the sands of time do not stay long, but forever linger.

Tiny grains of sand pushed together in a downwards pressure, leaving behind a small imprint; only for a while though, fore the waves rush in and erase the print as if it was never there. People are like footprints, hurriedly making a mark because they someday it will be erased.

Small feet race across the beach, prints appearing before vanishing under an onslaught of salty water. The owner of the feet, a small child with precious worldly eyes and a button nose, bends to leave handsprints in the sand. Wispy pale gold hair being teased by the wind, tickling the child's face. A wave lapped over the child, water filling their mouth, so salty, like tears. Eyes that were no color, save the relfection what they looked at, closed but...opened somewhere else.