The clock ticks differently at 3 am, doesn't it? More like a whispering heart than a machine.

She said, "Are dreams... just our minds rearranging the familiar pieces?"
He watched the shadows dance in the corner, a ballet of forgotten thoughts, forgotten dancers.

Somewhere, a newspaper rustled, speaking headlines of yesterdays that never were.
"Call him again, it's only numbers and voices."

Echoes of Eternity danced in the air, a haunting reminder, or perhaps a sweet lullaby?
An open door, just a sliver, leading to rooms unexplored yet known.

Shadows whispered about the third dimension where time folds differently.
Conversations float like ships adrift, aimless yet bound to unseen harbors.

The mirror, what does it reflect? The image, the illusion, or just the silent agreement of existence?

In the end, it's all about interpretations, how you choose to see, to believe, to feel.