Clouds broke a long silence, offering cracked skies all around the avenue. Can't you hear them whisper? The pigeons murmur prophecies, ruffling feathers, casting shadows over **forgotten thoughts**. Ah, the scent of electric rain always brings back memories—false ones, distorted reflections swimming in teacups.
Chasing ghosts through accordion tunnels, where every echo believes itself an oracle. The lampposts blink twice in caution, but what's the use of caution when the tide pulls you forth?
Trapped in a moment, fragmented by whispers of the past. Shall we dance again, in the light of that imaginary **moon**? Wax poetic, or simply wane? Yet still, the horizon sings an off-key truth, caressing the deaf ears of dreamers.
There are portals, portals everywhere, but are they doorways or walls dressed up for masquerades? And who, I ask you, who has the key when the world is a swirling canvas of forgotten melodies?