I once slipped into a reality not meant for me, the walls around whisper not in close but in echoes, memories of non-beginnings and unfinished sentences. Do you see the clock? It ticks backwards, a meeting perhaps unwelcome or inevitable. I wrote these notes in flux between places lost to dreaming, a path unexplored. A woman in a mirror smiles when no one looks, yet I am never alone amidst the phantoms clawing at the edges of perception, drawing lines in the air with fingers less than real. Shadows are conversations deferred, and future-not-future whispers its own forgotten tales. Note to tomorrow: chasms do not close but widen, as each step backward is a leap forward into the never-after. Hand over hand, thread by thread, unravel the tapestry of what was.