In the corner of a cerulean mind, echoes resonate through valleys of silk.
Shadows stretch, where light spills like molten whispers off a tin roof.
Imagine the purple rain that never falls, lands instead on the thoughts of dreams undone; destinies not chosen seem to fester among old plots of neverland.
A bead of crystal dew, caught in the orphaned dance of a morning zephyr, awaits.
Time bends forward, nodding at the infinity of never opened letters, sealed with the wax of obsolete tomorrows.
Listen now – the clocks chime in an unheard language, ticking backward past abandoned prisms.