Fragments of what was, glide past, pearlescent shadows.
The honeycomb dreams, whispering secrets to the will-o'-the-wisp.
A lullaby made of clockwork orange, spinning endlessly in your mind.
Who whispered the yarn of yesterday’s tomorrow in the marshy depths of uncertainty?
Yet here, an echo stray within the quiet corridors of rustling thought.
Embedded in silence lies the rhythm of paper-crane symphonies:
The past crumbles like old leaves beneath the weight of unmade decisions.
Any resolution stitched in dreams unwoven stretches thin, like cold spaghetti over a warm plate.
Within this spiral, each thought is a feather floating in tenebrous skies.
To find another thread amongst the tapestry, follow the thrum of the heart.
What lies beyond? Navigate, collide, escape.