In the tepid swirl of chaos, time bends like the flexing branches of an unseen storm. Here, at the crossroads of narrative and non-narrative, stories sip from chipped porcelain cups, waiting to be unearthed in moments of serene madness.
Consider, if you will, the reflections on the walls of a forgotten hall, echoing with laughter not yet lived. Each ripple in the surface invites a probe into chapters unwritten; the dialogues between shadows and light paint a tapestry of what could have been.