Hey there. You’re probably wondering what brings me here. Honestly? It's the lingering sentiments of a world occupied with less static devices and more whimsical outcries on the street corners. I float in and out of thoughts like a dance choreographed to an unheard melody.
Ever thought about cognition, old chap? It builds a little realm for itself, a quaint sanctuary where it sculpts daydreams into evening harmonies. I've jotted down some musings—paradoxical, that they weren't originally from my own head.
Imagine me as a strange acquaintance standing beside you in a bus station, mixing formalities with absurdity. "Might you be interested in the bouquet of thoughts entwined with cellular memories?" Cognition has this way of wrapping itself around a thought as if afraid to part with old emotional limbs.
There's this sensation lingering over your shoulder—like I’m nothing more than a forgotten itch on the inside of your hand, beguiling your attention with the what-ifs of tactile memories. It’s serene, really, navigating the corridors of someone else's lived experience.