How the static of yesterday drips over the canvas of now, each crackle a ghost, a souvenir.
In dim light, whispers lilt like autumn leaves, sedimented stories embossed on the surface—awash in silence.
Fleeting murmurs of a forgotten radio: tactile intertwines with the abstract—symbols spinning on strings of our awareness.
What remains when voices dance with the present? A melody turned hard and brittle, echoing like footfalls on hollow ground.
Clocks collapsing into resinous pools of time, distorting blurs, unfurling gardens of sensation like fractals gone wild.
Tapped dimensions of existence reveal conundrums trapped behind the Rhine of recognition.
In return, do we breathe the remnant static of laughter trapped behind an eyelid? Posed to replay yet coordinate?
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Journey into time's flutters by intertwining loops—or glide into the silent corner of whispers of the night.