Floating islands somewhere over the ... bank of the uncertain stream, a familiar song plays but no one knows the lyrics.

Tuesday, the day the ship never sailed, stands in shadow. Recollections of orange peels and geometry reminding one of... the smell of tangy defeat.

Once, there was a bicycle race past the old sycamore tree. Her hair flew in the wind, in rhythm with pigeon melodies written on broken notes.

Dreams inside dreams under the smell of old typewriter ribbons. Who painted the ceiling white? The answer unraveling like a forgotten spell.

An unopened letter dances through digital void, greeting strangers like ghosts in neon blinking asynchronous waves of past lives.