Fleeting memories dance on the cusp, shadows of fractured sunlight.
Steps taken on unpaved roads, leading nowhere, yet everywhere.
In the corner sits an old projector, flickering scenes of forgotten joy.
Words trapped beneath layers of time, voices in the wind speak in code.
Rooms abandoned, yet alive with dialogues in synthetic harmony.
The dust settles, a canvas for the whispers of what was and what could be.
Harmony of silicon and silence, reverberating through the corners.
Listening closely, one hears the whispers of synthetic dreams.
A melody of moments, stitched together by invisible threads.