Whispers beneath concrete jungles; echoes of forgotten echoes, tracing lines upon dreams barely remembered. Silhouettes move, though none are there, casting long shadows over the spaces in between what is said, and what is meant. These shadows, silent and omnipotent, dance to a tune only they can hear, a melody woven from the threads of invisible light.
It begins with the first breath of morning mist clinging to the skin, a reminder of the night that lingers even as dawn paints the sky in hues of pastel yawns. Thoughts unravel like yarn from a forgotten spool, weaving patterns that speak of yesterday's tomorrows. Are these reflections of the self, or merely projections of a self not yet found?
The clock ticks in rhythm with the heart, or is it the other way around? Time flows like water through fingers, elusive, slippery, a stream of consciousness with no banks to contain it, no beginning or end, just a journey downstream into the vast ocean of the unknown.