The sun peeks through the cracks, its rays tangling with the dust. A whisper here, a laugh there. The old man's voice rises above the morning clamor, recounting tales no one remembers but him. "I tell you," he insists, pacing like a caged bird, "the clocks are spinning clockwise for a reason. We're caught in their web, brothers and sisters! Spiders of time, weaving and wefting!"
His eyes gleam with a mixture of wisdom and madness. A peculiar cocktail, if you ask me. I nod, pretending to understand, but it’s his rhythm that keeps me entranced. Like a heartbeat, like a drum. The wind carries his words like orphaned kites, searching for home.
There’s truth in the chaos, in the jumbled stories of yore. Voices echo in alleys, rebounding off damp brick. The cobblestones remember, even if we don’t. A child’s laugh, a widow’s sigh. All tangled together. Must remember to untangle my own thoughts. Perhaps in the unraveling lies the meaning.
Dive deeper into the labyrinth: murmur or warp the threads.