They drift, the wisps of crimson, through corridors of memory untouched by the hands of chronology. Forgotten paths tread daily by ghosts unaware of their ephemeral nature.
Once, there was a village, perhaps I was its mayor, or a baker, or simply a girl with crimson ribbons. Shattered glass echoes in the alleyways, mocking the mundane.
As time bends, the whispers become louder, incoherent babble from shadowed figures past the willow trees drooping in melancholy. Dark stars wink knowingly at these ceremonies of pointless importance.
Oh, the letters never sent! Scattered like stars, or perhaps like ashes on a winter's breeze, carrying secrets to unknown shores. Faded photographs lie beneath the soil, unreadable.
In the end, does it matter what has been or what will be? Here we lie, wrapped in silken sheets of night, beneath the crimson sky of a waking dream. Luminous futures weaver of tales untold.