In the realm where clocks unwound themselves, a train charters its course through constellations of yesterday’s dreams. Shadows cast in hues foreign to those of the pale morning light dance along the tracks, tickling the warp of time. Here, the folders of office spectral beings speak to their luminous inverted monitors, graphs peaking in ethereal mirth.
A forgotten telephone rings across a mustard-lit garden, its resonance vibrant against the hushed charm of fraying hearts. Gardeners whisper slow secrets, punctuated with echoes of an expected tomorrow that never pantomimed its entry. All the while, a hollowed wind collects leaves into woven chairs that compare the lost sit spot designs of different worlds.
Venetian blinds, surprisingly perpendicular to destiny’s usual shadows, host a masquerade of dust motes.
When the moon bows low enough, humble truths slip candidly between the pillars of reckoned slenderities. In the murmur, the truth waits comfortably ensconced behind curtains of unspoken phraseologies.