Within the tapestry of fog, spectral whispers quiver, curling between pinpricks of light. Is that a dream or the taste of burnt paper? They sing, the memories, flickering like a candle left to the wind.
April’s echo stitches pathways into oblivion. Jars of whispers suspended in silence unveil monstrous truths. Shadows bathe in broken glass, where tides lap at the shores of forgotten footprints.
Take a breath, hold it in the nebulous cage—burrowed through thorns of irisate anxiety. What sandcastle held me captive while the waves called my name, firm against decay? The seagull watches from its doubt.
Skip through the fractals on a gingerbread road