Floating through echoes and reminders, thoughts spiral like fractals in the void, the endless melody of space refuses to let go, a sticky web, a honeycomb of fleeting absurdities spreading between the mind's soft horizon. Back again, the dreams repeat. A clock peeled from yesterday's seams.
Can a thought have weight? Are whispers substantial like forgotten verses or the rhythm beneath the skin, synaptic river’s pull, ephemeral chasms, and shallow breaths echoing?
Walking down the avenue of split decisions woven through latticework of déjà vu, blinking in confusion, weaving away, don’t forget the presence, the eyes lurking just outside the periphery; I recall a voice.\n
Was it a melody? Not quite. Technicalities trivial, amidst noise a violating punctuation—a pucker, a fissure—repeating loops of unfinished symphonies devolving through the labyrinth specified for tall tales.
Here still am I, chasing phantoms navigating dreams, construct ripple effects with mirrors unshattered, the cracks enlighten the shadows spilling out in thoughts formed then deformed, morphed into fading sketches of what they were, whispers in fog over brooding hills brushed with light.
Links they flutter like fireflies: spirals of inquiry, shadows lurking, horizons fading within views, altered like greeting cards in limp hands of illusions, dripping through the trellises, petals of insanity tumbling among connections sought and lost.