The whispers of an aging world bring thoughts both eldritch and tender. Beneath the concrete gray, souls wander, chasing shadows that flicker and fade like old film strips unspooling, forgotten in the attic of time.
What is a dream if not the slow decay of reason? Once elastic and interconnected, but now fraying at the edges, these cells of memory dissolve into the ether, a vapor reshaped by an unmoving hand. Reading the wrinkles of existence becomes an artform.
In another room, torn wallpaper peels like leaves in autumn, revealing traces of what once was, and will never be again. There rests an echo of laughter, buoyed in soft dust motes. The transient nature gnaws at nostalgia.
Of remnants, and the slow loss of time, we craft tales spun from detritus—odd souvenirs stamped with fleeting imagery: the dog that never barks, the clock that chimes only in shadow.