Fragments of time flow beside the now, swallowed whole by spectral currents. Forgotten bloodlines weave fugitive dreams, interlacing pages torn from histories — errant whispers rising like steam from unsolved mysteries.
How does a memory curve toward an edge? The fields no longer blooming with explorations pull forth, an awful fractal roar beyond a horizon drenched in electrostatic dreams, vanishing glimpses of sentiments unraveled sulking rustled within the patternless rut.
Hold tight, for the tapestry carries layers — palimpsests of erased journeys, ink stained with purpose met by the smudged hands of yesterday.
Turn, turn — an overture that ripples through strands of esoteric motions, stroking the shapes of decisions made — what liberation hides between whispers and renditions?
Intricately forged within seven probabilities and three parallel echoes, bite the fruit as others consumed, thinned air molded punctures of light through monotonous stone.
Awaken: the clock hears where the shadows waltz.