The ink drips, fleeting echoes of untold dreams trap door to the cosmos, where perhaps yesterday refuses tomorrow.
Forgotten futures are the inkspots across the pages of history, where crows caw hymns of machine and meat.
Inhaled by those who hear time fracturing, atoms spiraling into vessels unintentional and sincere, half-finished thoughts swim.
Trillions of collective memories locked in the crack between minutes, waiting for a maker, a cleaver of myths.
An unmade silence hangs like curtains...