In the corners of my mind's tangled web, there lies a melody, hidden under layers of dusty memories and soft silences. It's a song I sing to myself without voice, only the echo in mind. Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it howls, but it never leaves.
Does it remember your name? Shadows dance around the syllables, halting and seeking, like that circle over there (or over here) seeking meaning in its endless course. What truth lies beneath, echoing in the hollow of forgotten trees and unmapped rain?
You can touch it with your eyes closed, standing at the edge of reality, arms wide open to the secrets of the wind. Perhaps it's a clock ticking in reverse—counting moments before they were born or after they're gone.
Follow the hints, the soft refrains: whispering wind, crimson maps, the moment games that blur lines and stretch horizons until the horizon is but a simple line in a memory, annotated and wrong.