As I stepped into the shattered fragments of yesterday, memories whispered like echoes through a moonlit forest. Was that the laughter of a childhood ghost or merely the rustle of autumn leaves?
Once, a traveler in peculiar shoes recounted tales of bridges made from clouds. Each gaudy pedestrian skipped onward to where they envisioned tomorrow. Did you ever meet the boy in that sepia-toned photograph?
His eyes, windows to a garden untamed, forged an unremarkable night into remarkable chaos.
The clock hung heavy, dripping with golden moments lost.
Ticking, the hand grazed the horizon where stars came to whisper our careless aspirations. In the folds of fleeting dusk, could destiny be scrawled in the wisp of smoke?