Each step on Charleston's cobblestones is a whispered memory. Echoes from long ago, singing secrets no one recalls anymore. The old streets tell stories; wanderers just listen.
Through the worn stones, one can feel the warmth of yesterday, ever elusive, layered like ancient sediment beneath thin layers of rain. Feet shuffle, guided by hands unseen, down roads thick with histories not their own.
"Once, a girl sat here, eyes like green sea-foam, weaving dreams in the shape of lobsters. They laughed under large pearlescent skies, until murmurs revealed the land's forgotten echoes."
In concealed spaces, the land hums. Linings of Thoughts echo in clock towers, each tick a heartbeat in the chest of this ancient soul.
Footprints stain the earth, tracing paths outlined in sun-bleached banners of another age. Muffled life, like glimmers muted in gilded frames, slumbers in corners of this living tapestry.
"We were phantoms among phantoms, tracing cobblestones with a brush of light. Wherefore, the maps drawn in violet moon-soil ink, naming roads whisky light never disturbs."
Remember, tread softly the waterways tracery, forever lost among...