Tick-tock, yes, like the watch that doesn't care, it keeps going, even when there's nothing left to measure. Time's thief, hiding in seconds, stealing life by fractions. Is it bad? No, but it isn't good, either. It's the silence after the scream; it's the echo of laughter in an empty hall.

The sky, painted with dreams, then shredded by reality — the ugliest truth. Clouds don’t cry for the lost; they cry for themselves. I walk on cobbled streets, the stones are stories, whispered secrets, lies turned true underfoot. A patchwork of what could have been, what should have been, and what never was.

In dreams, we fly. But in waking, we crawl. The crawl is real, dragging us back. Yes, forward, but backward too. Paths fork and twist like tongues of old gods, speaking in riddles.

Letters unsent, piling like autumn leaves. The wind takes some; others lie still, waiting for the one who never comes. The sound of a door that never opens. Yes, it’s a melody, cruel and sweet. Songs of regret sung by silent choirs.

A mirror reflects truth, but only the ugly truth. The face of a stranger, smiling out of obligation. Behind the smile, shadows dance, casting shapes in the periphery. Do I know you? Yes and no, yes and no. A dance, a trance, a chance; the cycle closes, but the door? Always ajar, always a dream yet to unfold.

Paths await more truths, while others promise mirrored moments, still more echo whispers past.