Here lies the mosaic of whispers, an echo exhausted from chasing the horizon. I saw the circus tent in a dream once, but it was made of stars and shadows, sewn with threads of autumn rain. Memories like funhouse mirrors, bending the truth not to lie, but to reveal what might never be understood. The light flickers, dances, as if mocking the stillness of pages long forgotten.
The clock ticked backward. Not once, but a dozen times, I sat counting moments between heartbeats, searching for the song of silence. Names etched in sand, washed away by the tide of oblivion. Isn't it curious, how laughter can echo louder in the void? The reflection waves and ripples, a specter of what was, or perhaps what could be... if only the universe paused to breathe.
Wind whispers secrets in corridors of time, where every doorway leads to a room filled with echoes of forgotten laughter. A cat with a smile once told me riddles wrapped in twilight, her eyes knowing the truth hidden beneath layers of illusion. What is reality but a reflection of reflections, an endless loop of existence and absence?