As light begins to evade, the antiphon whispers through the forgotten alleyways. Did the harmony once lay here, in succinct variable measure? Lost now in the echelons of an unfinished melody, the songs redo themselves within my mind; a playback of serenity turned chaotic.
Remember: Time flows not as a river, but as a scattered library of indistinct volumes. Each page a fragment, each chapter a backward glance at the trajectory never taken. Do you hear the fugue? It's asking—imploring, almost malicious—its intent lost behind the curtain of your cognition.
What were the colors of that dream? Red, blue, a touch of violet perhaps? They smear across the canvases like echoes of an unseen orchestra bidding their farewell. Write them down, the allegory of your morning sleep sprinkled upon dusk's fading grasp.