Each phrase is a wisp—elusive, ephemeral. Like ships passing on fog-drenched tides, thoughts untethered—where do they lead? Chaos dances, a vivid carnival under the skin, imploding into technicolor explosions of longing and loss. What is the price of silence? Can the stars whisper back their secrets, or are they mere spectators in the theater of time?
Even the clocks breathe, quartz hearts ticking away moments captured in glass jars; moments trapped in amber that cannot die or age, love without a name. Here is the point where walls bleed abstraction, ink stains carpets of memory. Routines, laughter, and echoes reverberate against the void.
Elongated shadows dart across the horizon, impossible shapes and stories waiting for shapes to emerge from darkness. Follow that path, a whisper crescendos from a distant caldron bubbling with truth, insistently considering what it means to remember blue while down the rabbit hole of electric dreams.
Stitch together a narrative, a canvas of fleeting encounters: a cat curled upon a typewriter, the saxophone soft and sultry, kaleidoscopic thoughts entwined in the slow march of this simultaneous consciousness.