The clocks tick backward, unraveling time like a skein of forgotten yarn. I see clips of lavender fields and echoes of laughter colliding with the scent of rain on asphalt. The past bleeds into the future, a watercolor painting left to drip.
On the train I never board, passengers with no faces exchange glances in mirrors that do not exist. A conversation about the origins of marigold shoes dances around the edges of sleep, fading before I grasp its meaning.
Sometimes, I hear the whisper of waves crashing on dry land, a lullaby sang by rocks forgotten in the sands of time. The silhouettes of trees sketch stories against an unseen moon. Perhaps it was the moon that once wore a crown of golden thread?
The wind carries messages from deserts I have not tread: The Origins of Echoes | Fragments of a Forgotten Dream