They spoke in whispers about the place where clocks forget to tick.
I remember a summer afternoon, drenched in lemonade dreams, where shadows played with the light.
In the attic of my mind, there's a song bird trapped between the pages of an unwritten book.
The smell of rain on asphalt reminds me of childhood promises I never quite understood.
And there, under the old oak tree, we carved our initials into the fabric of forever.