Tides pull, they draw me in, the static, whispers, echoes of ponderings left on the fringe of memory, a child tumbling in the garden, laughter fades--a shadow in the dusk; desires twist on the spindle of existence, flames flickering, flickering, scribbles on papyrus hide behind opaque smudges, they linger like dust.
Caustic scents of ancient libraries, despair mingling with hope, cracked pages, murmurs of bygone dreams, fluttering through corridors of perception, vibrant yet muted—objects being—they slip through fingers like grains of sand on timeless shores.
Can a clock melt? Drip, drip, into the pools of yesterday. The sunlight sizzles, bending the light. I see them; see you through the lens of fragmented reflections and fading moments. Echoes of twilight combine with the drumbeats of a heart that only beats in the rhythm of silence. Patterns within the patterns—endless loops.
To be lost in a thought, a vision that swirls, like kaleidoscopes reversing time— what is essence? Choas breathes its art—fractals upon fractals, do you hear the hum? Do you see the static revealing truths hidden deep? Lost in Translation, memories of lost words.