The clock sprawls against the wall, and the shadows churn whispers; remnants of time black as ink floods the corners.
Forgotten memories haunt their echoes—palms pressed against cool glass and the hum of distant laughter pinged in ripples of absence.
Nothing feels like everything baubles in the twilight—a fallen teacup, sinking into the carpet of yesterday.
"Did that creature just blink?" trembles brushed a breeze like sighs transmuted into suggestion.
What is the color of oblivion? Click to see...*
Eloquence smothered in shredded silences, the stories half-told beneath your pillow—tracing a dream pocket with a finger.
"I've met my other self, sipping green tea at the crossroads of realities."