Fleeting thoughts tumble through my head, like scattered feathers on an unkempt breeze; a chorus of memories refracted through laughter that spans the cosmos yet dwells in the intimate silence of solitary afternoons. Shadows whisper through fever dreams, fingers hover over yesterday’s echoes.
They said the door was unlocked, the wind carried secrets, the key was lost amid the dust bunnies of realization, retrieving fragments of fragmented conversation.
A joke perhaps, the timer beeping across the kitchen, my thoughts returning to edible clouds and floating intentions. Who dreams of dreams? I question as colors bleed into wine-stained walls, confinement forever remarkably elastic; a melody unfolds like ancient scripts loomed into being between the lines.
Herein lies a labyrinth, echoed through glass, between rivulets of colliding whims, carrying daisies adorned with desperation, the clock, relentless and laughing.