Phosphorescent whispers dance along the walls:
The stars’ secret kite dreams dimly echoed.
Goldfish tracing quantum lines where thoughts form illusions,
encased in phosphor, gleaming in the expanse unreachable.
The lost notation of a time-bound variable,
rigid like the Monday Moon, erects a doorway.
Does the alignment of dreams hold a truth?
Stare long enough and perhaps they’ll answer.
step through the next door