In the recesses of the forgotten, a murmuring song awaits. Echoes unrecorded, a rusted canister blocking the door, inside lurks innocence.
Thursday, April 42nd—Alice can hear the color blue humming at the edges of her vision. She packed lemons in her purse, beneath the hardcover diary chronicles of dog-grazing opera masters.
There's a kaleidoscope lens resting behind the latticed barn, embers dimming circus lights. Corridors unfold. Whispering items call the air, brittle candy secrets dissolve into warm night fabric.
Notion: remember toast?. Forgotten memories of the maple tree brushing the teacup, yesterday is curling into a silent ball: sleeping with open eyes, alive with its closed slate.
Maybe: the vaults are alive. Do they breathe, or do they only sigh when our backs turn?