I am walking a street that bends backward into itself, the sun, an echo of a forgotten memory, paints shadows that remember me before I remember them. But why the whispers of a parallel breath, akin yet distinct?

Paths woven, raveled, unraveling, where every step reverberates in two. Perhaps yesterday was tomorrow, once folded in a drawer of now. This street, is it new or just forgotten?

A voice calls from beyond the visible. Are you me, in another skin, another light? We laugh at the same time, don’t we? A synchronous pulse in a city that breathes double.

There’s a door ajar somewhere in the distance; its frame glows with both warmth and chill. When did we pass through it last? Listen closely, and you might hear the echoes of laughter, whispers of someone else's dream.