Footprints are not always directional, are they? If I step in quicksand, will I leave a mark, or is it just an absurd chat with the universe? Each step dissolving into another vague, curious layer. The ink of the cosmos never dries.
Whispers of a dream forgotten
Why does the clock keep drifting? It ticks, tocks, and we just dance in our shadows—lost in the rhythm of purple cloudscapes. These thoughts weave the fabric of time like crumpled paper under a heavy book.
The horizon bends low when you squint; can you see it? It doesn’t always lead where you think. Like a conversation at midnight, stretching endlessly over the absence of substance. Are you listening, invisible friend?
Each heartbeat pulses in strange directions, maybe to another universe...
And there’s that garden of dreams—growing flowers with skulls, radiating colors yet fading gently. Stand here, will you? Feel the breeze carrying echoes into the yawning hurry of the void.