You know, it’s funny how the mind archives the absurd, dusting off fragments like old photo albums. Once I was told that the past is merely a series of whispers, fleeting shadows flashing through the brain. Have you ever seen a ghost at dawn? They linger just long enough to ask the question... why?
One time I overheard: "I can’t remember where I put the truth, maybe it’s slipped into the cracks behind the mirror." And another, "Do you think the walls remember our laughter, or are they just hungry for silence?" It's like our tears evaporate, leaving only a ghostly trace of what once was.
Discover distorted truths, where laughter meets the absurdity of existence. And if you ever find someone lost in thought, ask them—were we ever truly here?
Is it me or does every memory feel like a silhouette now? I used to have a jar of promises, filled to the brim, til one day, they slipped through my fingers and into the cracks of yesterday. Is it nostalgia that haunts us, or just time itself, clinging with damp hands?
Oh, speaking of hands—did you ever notice how they speak their own language? My palms have written stories that no one else has read. Just like how the clock keeps ticking, but do the gears remember the moments they’ve spun?
Listen to the whispers of bygone days, and if you find the sound of laughter echoing, hold onto it. Don't let it be a ghost.