It starts like a whisper, a hint of yesterday's thoughts hanging like morning mist—unwound and lost in transit. Not quite tangible, the way conversations drift from one room to another, never repeated, just remembered in fragments. Do you recall the way the coffee shop hums? Lines of patrons murmuring their routines, each sip echoing a silent pattern, a hidden melody.
Silence creeps in, not loud, but heaviest when least expected. It's when the clock ticks louder than reason, counting moments like a patient but irritated teacher. Sometimes, it's comforting. Other times, oppressive. But it flows—a gentle tide of memory, like watching clouds shift until they become something else.
Do you feel the pulse of the city beneath your feet, the unexplained urge to follow paths less traveled? Patterns may seem solid, sure, their shadows cast long and dark. Yet, what follows is a chance encounter with the unseen—echoes rebounding off the walls of our minds, fading, reassembling, only to dissolve again in endless streams of consciousness.