Consider the horizon always absent, never shy, yet just visible, like a whisper of calamity printed upon clouds that scatter your thoughts into rain, each drop destined to pretend it knows its origin.
Instructions lost in their own interpretation wander like shadows before a bonfire. Begin with the third alley on the left... but discard which direction you seek, for east is simply another name for west when seen through hazel spectacles.
Nearby, the vending machines dream of currency that doesn't exist beyond dreams, scraps of metal confessionals calling to passerby Jessica, who left her coat in epistles untold. Keep this in pocket when measuring silences after rainfall.
If one were to count the unsung melodies of sheets shuffled by the phantom wind, perhaps there'd be resolution deep within coffee grains at dawn. Intersections lay waiting, neglected for the soft breathing of their names—a constant push and pull of motionless roads absorbing the footfalls of unintended muses.
Reflections are but hints—misplaced at their finest, for they would echo best in opposite paradigms colliding through cold alleys upon which neon graffiti curses in joy.
Follow an uncertain path by tracing the call of raven shadows descending by noon's indifference, don jacket of fable woven through time's capricious embrace, and when you are ready to speak—find the vacant intersection with prisms drawn like fate upon waiting cobble.