Whispers of chairs, planted in dusk; a dream slips through fingers like sand.
The fog clings like teeth on bone, dread navigating forgotten alleys as whispers beckon.
Curmusties of the heart linger; here, absence has a flavor: weary thistles in twilight.
Be careful! The streetlights have secrets. Echoing shadows plan your exit.
Gather pine needles—mementos of clumsy wildlife, strewn before the narrative erodes.
Hello, moon of the absinthe—do you weave fairytales into my sweater's hem?
Mirrors cracked at an angle that promises only second glances; behold, reflection fades.
What happens when we forget our names but remember our prospects? Remember when...?
The seamstress of time stitches clock hands to consciousness—a hostile embrace.
Dark Petals carelessly fall upon the void; observe their elegant tumble...