Ever heard of those moments when words slip through your mind like sand through fingers? Yeah, those moments.
"You had me at the sands," she replied, digging her toes into the beach, eyes locked on the horizon.
Chapter XXV, lost in time possibly, just resting somewhere in the chapterless wilderness of our heads. Did you ever write about the boy with dreams painted in yellow? Oh, he was something, wasn't he?
There's that unspoken bond though, a glint in your eye when I mention the moonlit garden.
"Near the coffee shop, slightly off the main street," he said, as if it was all perfectly obvious.
Another page turns itself in a world unnamed. The stamps of long-gone postal workers, reminders of travels unshown, finds a home in a hidden drawers.
Find our next lost passage:
To the old tree house
Or revisit:
The whispering graves