Between moments, blurred and disjointed. An intonation captured in a half-remembered dream. The sound of footsteps echoes, reverberating through the mists of memory.
“They were there; or was it me? An ordinary table, filled with cracks, the laughter lingers in the corner. The silence gathers again.”
In the recesses of perception, color fades. Liquid and tangible, a honeyed residue of what could have been, leaked from the crevices of a maelstrom dreams seeping into the waking world.
Bisected journeys are visible; paths overlap, collapse into creases. What remains feels so distant. A bittersweet whisper of yesterday lingers—drifting like dandelion seeds on an unseen breeze.
For more reflections, visit Whispers or Recollections.