07:56
Whispering walls, they speak in muted echoes, tracing patterns on the flesh, cold ideas ricochet off hollow dreams, suffocating under the weight of unspoken truths; what jaunt is this where the familiar becomes stranger with every undeniably distorted glance? Begin again, they say, breathe in, breathe out, where do the shapes go when the light twists them too much?
And yet, there lies a door in the most insipid corner of a forgotten room... Here we go, hair down, shoes off, the clock... oh the clock that sings and doesn't tick, like time laughs at our courage. Open up to the subtle wail behind wallpaper, search for the moths, dancing shadows now, isn’t it?
The whispers never cease
Ours is a carousel of moments spiraling faster, slower, where does it land? A bus in the mist; all these lines blur like the dirty tracks of a city breathing in diesel and despair. Roads no longer mapped by stars, we draw them with ink and sorrow in underlit rooms. Beyond the window lies the world forgotten; beyond dreams themselves, there lies oblivion.
Enter the Carousel
Muffled laughter mingles, grids glowing under synthetic dusk; ally or apparition? Stranger in the fog, the hum of the universe leans close, breaking the habitual silence with whispered atoms, a touch of cosmic grace as we fold ourselves into smaller pieces, tighter spaces, reformat, defragment. Do you remember why it all began to unfold like this?
The Path Ahead Is Dark
Linger upon these corridors — oh perennial wanderer. The streets make promises they never keep; tethered dreams float above while earthbound hopes anchor us to familiar, tragic routines.