Here lies a confession, perhaps too soaked in inevitable entropy. Do we crumble, inch by inch, or do the well-designed shadows consume us whole in their own ripple-wrapped nursery rhymes?
The indecipherable clock ticks—but does it? When we inspect the flecked wood of our desks, it becomes clearer that what holds time does not include that ticklish device but rather the velvet thread between past and this suspicious now.
Down corridors of crumbled gasoline dreams, where architecture whispers doctrines and memoried insatiabilities resound, stumble to their own open questions: An invitation to the wandering observer. Are you the keeper still, or merely the shelf that holds countless leagues of sleep-deprived questions?
Will you find it? The corner of roads traces not its own gardens.
Reflectively spinning, the carousel of our mutual abstractions extends its hand through softly overtures, sleepless wooden marionettes, forever twirling on existential threads...