In the silence of the cobblestone echo, a drop of memory falls—softly, it ripples the mirror of yesterday. A clock suspended in glass bubbles, where the hands melt like the last of summer’s sun, casting shadows that dance to the rhythm of the unforeseen moon.
The dandelions, once carried by a forgotten breeze, now hold secrets of the ancients. In their gentle sway, tales of warriors clad in liquid silver, beneath a cerulean sky cracked with the laughter of rain. They forge the earth anew, sculpting rivers from thoughts that never found voice.
Fragments whispered by cicadas in the twilight, of a city built with dreams and dismantled by sighs. Listen—can you hear the call of the mechanical caterpillar as it weaves the tapestry of the unseen hour? Clutching at the threads of time, it seeks solace in the embrace of autumn dew.
The puddles mirror more than just reflections; they mirror the unsaid. The echoes of distant galaxies colliding, a serenade played by the ungathered stars. Beneath the water's surface, a maze unfolds—a journey where past and future are mere illusions of the present.
Wander to the Sky's Edge