“In the hush of twilight, a faint inhale echoed of yesterday’s laughter, blooming within the cobwebbed corners of your thoughts. Was it a dream, or merely the smoke of a fading fire? Forever sculpting the hanging whispers:
• Cucumbers and sandcastles waking to the tide
• A paper boat sailing within a tear
• Umbrellas made of discarded thoughts caught on the breeze
• Jars of starlight left on the windowsill
Now clipped to the other side of infinity,"
(*ponder the forgotten:* clocks-of-nostalgia.html)
Numbers plough their cerebral fields, harvesting echoes of “it was a Tuesday.” Voices mix, babbling dialect of the unseen. Have you seen my sense of reality? It suffers from a case of misplaced confidence; dreams-in-between.html.