Wiggle in shadows, the specter murmurs about pearls. A world sealed tight by lids, egg yolk dreams forgotten in whisked abandon. The muffin spread by night, glistening with deceit Am I authentic?
Memory flickers like station noise. Your eyes dart across the table, searching for meaning among condiments. Was it Saturday? The spools of ancient laughter unraveling hastily beneath the white mote of mayonnaise...
Enter gate 42—beyond the glass door, they hid the real ones. Conversations thrum, an orchestra of toasted desires. Is this the moment?
Indistinct echoes of rain-soaked sidewalks and busker melodies—carry on the ritual of mixing. Remember when she said? Seek the corridor,
In the steam of summer days, what is ever real? Only the cautious squeeze of reality dispelling illusions as it marked the beginning of the end.