A breeze tickles the edges of thought, slipping through fingers, lost in the autumn dance. There was a song, perhaps, lingering like the scent of rain on warm pavements.
Childhood echoes with laughter like distant shores, or was it a cry? Memory is a fragile bubble, popping, leaving only scattered reflections on the surface of time.
Dream fragments whisper through the walls, as clocks tick backwards in the land of forgotten toys.
The sky remembers when the sun was a child, too. Tiny stars wink in the shadows, their secrets tumbling like autumn leaves.
A path unwalked, yet walked. Footsteps in the sand, erased by waves that never came, under skies that were painted by hands unseen.
Secret tides pull at the anchor of reason, casting nets in the sea of the possible.