Somewhere between the coffee and the morning rush, I slipped. Time shifted like sand beneath my feet. It's funny really, how just a moment ago, I was staring at the clouds and wondering if they ever repeat the same dance. Have you ever tried explaining clouds to someone over the phone? It's all a bit poetic, I suppose.
Yesterday's newspaper spoke of rabbits on parade. I imagined them in tiny hats, practicing good etiquette, hopping politely in single file. Part of me wished it were true—they could accompany the clouds in their tango of times lost.
I remember someone saying that clocks were the best storytellers. Each tick a pulse, each pause a chapter unwritten. So, here I sit, surrounded by fleeting seconds, wondering when I'll step back into the flow. Ever tried pausing a book mid-sentence? It seems unfinished, much like these thoughts.