Slow breaths. Echoes in the whispered circutils. Thoughts lingering like old tram droned clattering through pixel haze.
Do you remember the Danuve Lites sadimmering? They weren't here, from earlier, or later. Somewhere suspended.
A labyrinth bent of alleys, but...not despair, instead a digital solace. Pause, rewrite, pause, corrode.
City codex muttered tales of our ancestrals from informiert bestaan. Who are we in this cascaded echo?
Europa. Melancholy. Disturbed by glanced horizons clicked into memories storred warm, digitized touch makes real? Or dream?