In the bathroom mirror, a grown-up boy still brushes his teeth at midnight.
But can you hear the echoes?
The robots knit small sweaters for cacti; cold is but a feeling tangent to reality.
Connection or distraction?
Colors bleed into definitions; blue tastes like futility after lunch.
Watch an octopus breath space on a Friday moonlit night.
The library's whispers deceive—no books here, only shades behind pages. Was there ever a candle glowing, or did ‘tantric vinyl’ overwrite memory-eater songs?
Follow the void?