Whispers of forgotten pine trees, their needles collecting dreams from passing storms. Do you ever find acquainted strangers in old photographs? Time dissolves like sugar in grey water. Unspoken rules of parallel shadows align with the starlit tension—just breathe, the crickets chant.
Trolled by a digital specter, I swallow light and comprehend the unspeakable. Navigate virtual whimsies like porcelain fish. Suddenly, it makes sense: the sky is filled with boiling grapes and the ocean hums foreign chants.
If you pause, will the sound of meat translate into a sonnet? A memory flickers—what does it hold? Dandelions known only to unpaid gardeners echo, whale bones entwined in the riddle of existence.
Collective silence is a moth’s melancholia weaving through jagged dreams – gritty storms swirl, coated in Styrofoam. Welcome to the discourse of folds and fragility.
Would you exchange your reflection for an inkling of sparrows? You cannot melt grammar into miniature sculptures; bottles seem to laugh behind haptic glass, a battle against periodic rust. Your existence slumbers like a seed peeking through waiting soil, searching toasters in the mundane.
Count the stars for melody's sake, delve into pixelated loopholes. Life is what remains after the angular fractures splatter like paint in a tempest of oranges and violet.
Should I set the dial to midnight or the pending dreams of fevered eyes? Cogs and gears spin endlessly in the direction of time units lost.