Have you ever paused to think, the moment before you blink, about the stories tucked neatly between? Classic tragedies of Tuesday afternoons cannot mirror the mundane melodies we stitch together. It’s a soft fabric, unstitched at the seams of tomorrow. You were there, right?
Oozing into recollections, streams of consciousness overlap like wayward socks in a dryer—ephemeral yet tangible, just like that one time you forgot your umbrella only to dance with puddles instead. Ah yes, time flies, yet it’s stuck in a loop of your disarray, a ludicrous blanket for chilly thoughts.
In the hallways of fragmented laughter, every echo becomes an intricate tapestry of what ifs, should haves, and could be's. A mirror shatters; it reflects a comer’s visage—a longing for wholeness. Or perhaps a reckless embrace of frayed ends? Dust motes are whispers, aren’t they?
But wait, are we lost or merely wandering? It becomes unclear with the shadows.
Dive into false chronicles and discover ephemeral lies.