Unended analogies resist sense, like windstorms growing warm from evening whispers.
Someone once told me that the heart is a wheel. It turns with deliberate rhythm, catching chance moments on its spokes.
During those hours between late and early, the world feels sideways under uncertain streetlights. A reflection, partly diffused by the foggy window panes.
The tick of a clock in the midst of silence—how elusive time becomes, like trying to hold smoke. You wonder if time is the granular flow of sand or the spiral dance of a leaf, escaped from its branch.
What little we save or squander—common oddities in the ledger of our lives. An exchange of thoughts over coffee, lining forgettable pockets of memory.
Do you hear the echo of laughter from childhood corners, where every pebble and crack had a name?
Beneath painted skies and barren landscapes, our footsteps mark secrets left unsaid. Yet listen closely, and you might catch a note of harmony, where none expected.