In the empty shell of a streetlamp's embrace, glistening stardust dances on invisible threads, weaving tales of worlds long unfurled beneath the pulse of an unrelenting dream. Electric whispers hummed at the edge of this crumpled map, mapping rebirth among shadows. Once more upon the crooked lines marked 'here' and 'there', but which was which, when the fog laughed in serpentine hooks, as thoughts snagged like clothes upon branches in the spectral forest of glass and concrete?
Iterations, always iterations—the relentless infinite loop of what was meant to be **permanent**; the scripted plays of life, read by nonexistent hands onelders of an unsung library. Unraveled yet, in the open air, threadbare pieces of self wore upon the sleeve like a subtle tongue speaking in the touch of gossamer cords. Occasionally, the whisper speaks back, questions hidden within the answers that map a universe ungrasped, a dance upon the brink of what was, what might yet breathe into reality.