The pages, unwritten ashes upon the desk, hold secrets in their staffroom of silence. Somewhere, shadowed beneath the molasses tide of dusk, is where the quiet pulses breathe.
In the innermost corridor of her thoughts, echoes reverberate the unstable fabric of yesterday, tracing luminescent finger paths on air thick with invisible stars.
They were stories lost to the morrow—morsels of existence unclaimed by the clock’s relentless fingers. Would they speak of love’s tandem dance among the willows, or the singular horizon of a forgotten love of cats who purr worlds into motion?
The coffee grows cold beside her as she stares, a mountain chain of ink-vined humanity arraying in a dynamic calm, folding into themselves like somnolent origami.
How many more pulses shall go unquilled? How many pages unseen, an orphan's lament, lost beneath the bookshelves of her wandering mind? Perhaps someday, the quiet will find the voice she never wrote it.
Out along the artery of dreams, lie paths leading elsewhere: Faint Traces | Murmured Overviews