Je ne sais quoi—the sound of shoes on gravel when all is air. Reverberations heard last Tuesday mimic Wednesday's tune. Yet none can name the symphony abolished by Tomorrow.
Congratulations! You've achieved peak existentialism in casual dress. Mirrors capture everything yet play no role in choirs. Sing when the unsung urge you to refrain from that impulse.
"What did you see over there?" "Oh, the usual horizon consuming its own light."
Manuals to cosmic machinery dictate tightened screw within heart. The sky aches evenings not professed, wearing veils of yesterday’s spilled luminescence.
Betwixt, her directory hints preordained routes to nowhere near content over here or there