"It might rain umbrellas," she sang, her voice blending with the rhythm of invisible waves. The sand was carpet-soft below them, a thousand tiny dreams rolling into one.
"He was yesterday's car with blank headlights," murmured another, affecting an accent that spun words with metallic edges. A cafe table, tinted turquoise, stood veiled in distant coffee smoke.
A child blurred into the color of ripe peach, left trails of laughter unattended in the air. Pause, and listen: the echoes linger like moths around lanterns.
"Do you think clocks remember where they hid time?" said someone in a voice threaded with the gloss of a noble past. Beyond, the moon wore a wreath of figured clouds, ephemeral sentences unspoken.