In the void between remembered dreams and forgotten sunrises, the echoes of whispered intentions linger like shadows of ghosts that never were. What is left when the whispers cease, and the echoes find no walls to bounce off?
A fish once told a bicycle, "Where we are never was, and where we go is a mere suggestion." The tree, rooted in untold soil, merely nodded its silent agreement. Are we mere items on a list yet to be checked? Or perhaps, we are the forgotten echoes of an unheard symphony.
Yesterday, I saw a convergence of umbrellas plotting diabolical schemes for the rain-soaked sidewalks. The clouds were unfazed, as they forgot to remember the morning's promises of sunshine.
Somewhere, a clock ticks backward, and those who hear it age in reverse, shedding memories like layers of worn-out skin.