The clock ticks, but time is an illusion dancing on the horizon. A whisper wrapped in gears and rust.
Every chair, every table, they hold memories like ancient sages speak in tongues only heard when you press your ear close... closer... until even the walls give in.
The paint peels in diagonal dreams, forming abstract shapes in the mundane afternoon light, while the echoes of soft voices rise from cracks like smoke from a dying ember.
A distant star hums a lullaby in a language of silicate and shadow. Do you understand?
Listen closely and the very fabric of the universe seems to unravel its stories, threads woven into the fabric of inanimate dreams, each thread a possible life longing to be known.
Who speaks the unspoken?