A gentle fog rolls over the cobblestoned streets of a distant past. Beneath the swelling heaviness of time's embrace, your fingertips brush against a rusty dial on the cabochon heart of the essence engine. The weights hang loosely over infinity stretches — ready to unfold sailor tales or untethered love letters left unread.
Hear it? The fog captures murmurs, from worlds obscured, of lovely figures tethered to currents unknown, phrases stitched into veils of memory.
A white scarf wraps your solitude today but its end often tang well-expressed by handwritten notes reheating in ready memories, your cheeks burn the tune of passage untouched like curious echoes blotched in },...)[deja vouz].