Catch these ephemeral notes before they drift away:
Have you ever seen the sky wear shadows like old coats? I swear it happens just before dusk in ways that shuffle your mind. It's like watching an old friend get lost in music, forgetting the world exists.
Sometimes the sun spills secrets through windows that aren’t really there. You’ve got to lean in close and listen. They whisper about echoes and forgotten tales that time pushes under carpets made of starlight.
The trees nod knowingly when lies turn true and vice versa. In those moments, it all makes sense—like peeling a pomegranate in reverse, the seeds hiding, knowing they should be out in the open.
People talk about the end of seasons as if they’re reading an unfinished book aloud. Their voices carry, each sentence a thread unraveling the fabric of evening.