In the vast corridors of recollection, the pedestrian scene of a café is laced with the aroma of forgotten dialogues and unshed rain. Is it Tuesday? The calendar is a distorted mural in our minds.
Entwined are the strands of a childhood playground, its rusted swings whispering secrets to the passing breeze, secrets of shadows that linger beyond the light of day.
Did a train ever pass through that old station? The platform now a canvas where time paints in broad, abstract strokes, erasing and adding endlessly. Echoes of tramadol technicolor dreams drift softly.
Moving through this gallery, one encounters not art, but fragments of existence embodied in light and form. Reflections lost in the static of a broken radio tune.
The laboratory report sits unfinished, its graphs oscillating between predictability and chaos, much like our ambitions. Afterthoughts crystallized in the vapor of yesterday's sighs.