Clock stopped.
A marketplace of memories.
Mild whispers of lost tomorrows.
The vendor at the first stall:
"These apples never rot. Shadowed by past visits."
Inspecting, I tasted yesterday's dawn.
A small trinket glimmers —
“Frosted dates,” she claims,
“Preserved in hopes of yesterweave.”
A flicker — merchants from centuries mingle.
An echoing laugh from the future—
`DefaultString`, they always called me.
Wander on, beneath cosmic haloes.
Threads of reality woven askew.
Time bleeds gently, coloring the strands.