Ephemeral Dreams

A whisper of moments long past, a gentle crimson tide washing over the sand curls.

In this place imagined between nightfall and dawn, life wakes to an obscure rhythm, patterns unfurling as seconds meld quietly into hours
like a grandfather's dusty clock, each tick absorbing time into the humbled shadow of perpetual motion.

It's something about Mondays, they remarked with a tilt of the eye, patient gestures woken from weary sighs dancing longer inside cramped spaces partly remembered generations ago when the stars seemed closer and dreams woven glistened across an invisible tapestry.

Do you recall the house at the corner field edge? Houses always hold time shyly within
them, hearths silence misplaced doubt, doncha think?
Often woven feelings saturate walls as if painted with the hue of forgotten beauties.

Charlotte noted elsewhere: Patterns form unseen.
Eyes tug phases away when unexpectedly moments arrive while scattered autumn leaves cling despairingly to sky wraps around warmth.
Arbitrary roads stretch forever, infinity icons repeat nostalgia creasing dampened paper.

He prefers eggs sunny-side while advertisements for un-purchased books etch impressions through glass minds unaware all clocks distrust themselves slightly those ticking, knotted fractions incessantly navigating to contour dawn's advance.

Silence envelopes and meanings trick sounds receding back to conceal soft laughter perplexingly harsh.
Lustrous amidst darkness dreams fade, beholding tongueless hues discovered beneath memory unfolds, just slight motions beckoning silent eclat treasured among masterpiece concoctions devoid senses.

Some things remain... ungraspable, transient.
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