The glitch of technicolor sequins didn't quite catch on, did it? I imagined folding them under pillows laid upon clouds at some undefined midnight market. The ripples carry hints of stories where lights above balconies speak to nameless strangers. Like meeting an elder tree with wise, clicking leaves.
Often, I ponder: what if all dreams were saved, nested within an ancient digital artifact, old as time's wispy breath? I'm not rule-bound to forget these glimpses—boards at sleep's border murmur forgotten passwords.
Absurd Glitches