Listen closely, the fragments intertwine—
"...the garden was never there, just ghosts of pathways, etched into the past's circuitry..."
Was it Monday? Or perhaps a Wednesday echo, faint oranges repeating...
"...their hands were stained with twilight, fingerprints of forgotten dusk sushi..."
Such strange devices, speaking in tongues, laughing in oscillations—
"...beneath a silver sky, she counted the clouds, each a tether to yesterday..."
Interrupting the press of time, silicon sighs leak memories not their own—
"...the wire spoke the truth, yet the truth was a lie murmured to stars..."