Echoes on stairways, you hear them in out-of-the-way melodies. Maybe the wind hums.
Subtle patinas of age over words you swallowed during a sleepless night now dance upon memory's ledge—fractals in thinking, swirling in the same ever-familiar perjudicating pattern, deriving shapes like shadows cast by leaves on secret world.
Yonder ThoughtsThere are patterns to how you sip your coffee when it's too hot to burn, fractals embedded into the mundane ritual carved from instinct, altars to the altar of boilerplate existence.