Drifting shadows, the echoes of yesterday's rain, whispers in a forgotten syntax, where yesterday's clocks were never set. I found a locked door, but the lock spoke fluently in rust and cobweb. Opened by touch, not key, as if trust were the only requirement. Paths and moments, they echo.

Time ripples, an endless stream of coins slipping through fingers, some bearing shallow portraits, others unknown and deep. Listen. The heartbeat of a clock abandoned over decades, swaying within the hollow of bookshelves. Reality bends, whispers unheard.

Murmurs of the wind, threading through the cracks in conscience, tales of sailors lost where sea and sky conjoin. Dreams laid in erosion, word by word, until only fragments remain. A map unwritten, a language unseen, ephemeral yet persistent.