Edges of reality slip away, like sands through fingers, crumbling, dissolving. Traces of yesterday whisper in winds too faint to grasp, too elusive to catch hold of.
Footprints lead nowhere, or perhaps everywhere. Each step an echo, reverberating in empty hallways of memory, lined with the shadows of forgotten choices. Luminous uncertainty guides the way.
A clock ticks somewhere beyond reach, its hands moving backwards, erasing moments like an artist unsatisfied with the canvas. The grains of time slip into oblivion, leaving only the echo of their absence. Delusions dance in the remnants.
Do we walk to find, or to lose? Perhaps the path itself is the destination, a paradox wrapped in the enigma of existence's fragile web. Renegade sands swirl in a dance eternal.