A clock on the wall ticks, yet ticks, and I wonder whose dance we're all a part of. Beneath the hands of time lie secrets, coded, ciphers waiting to be unraveled. Today is just yesterday, crooked in a funhouse mirror, reflecting what it could be, not what it is, and we mirror, reflect, distort the truth that is so mundane, yet so mysterious. Reflection in silver, whispers in shadow.
We write our journals, hoping to decode our days, only to find the final twist where all paths diverge. Echoes of Tomorrow might understand us better.
When was the last time you stopped to listen? The wind carries stories older than stone. Windows to the Unseen show what is often overlooked.