I think the walls here whisper. In the corners, soot gathers and the echoes of horses trot across cobbled streets, though no streets were here ever. They say the sun bleeds a different truth in the fractured night. Do you hear it too?

There was a time in undisclosed mornings when I talked to birds and they spoke back in riddles; their plumage seemed more vivid then. A sky anchored by feathers drifting as clouds, light glinting like scattered secrets over dew-covered grass.

I once dreamt of a path made of mirrors, twisting infinitely in the soft glow of self-inflected light. When I awoke, I found paper cranes instead, scattered across the room, whispering messages in folds and creases.

Leviathan of bureaucracy and the petrels of memory cross wires under a kaleidoscope moon rising in a concrete jungle of bygone times. The link you thought lost reappears when you least expect it, jumbled and tangled yet eerily familiar.