An old classical piece played in reverse whispers to you in shadows. They say it's faster that way, a melody sprinting back to its origin. Yet missed that anticipated pause, like shadows refusing sunlight, surely.
Your ticket has been found where dreams meet disappointment, valid only on line 47 of Absurd Trans-Continental Services. Each delay, another encore of this symphony written by fate's left hand.
Moonlight's chase needs no path, illuminating the peculiar: Forward at snail's pace, backward the direction of lost horizons. Irony dons satin slippers, dancing under chandeliers of forgotten ambitions.
Write whispers to voice empty cities; the echoes are already late. Piped heavenly tunes in reverse, sans any veritably going somewhere.