In alternate currents—where whispers of time weave through strands of infinite possibility— a name surfaces, flickering: Mary.
Fizzles are entangled echoes bouncing through halls of resonance.
Particles and polls shift, a questionnaire not asked on a Tuesday nebula where such answers relinquish structure.
Ceilings of glass with refracting deserts beyond that small mention of unknown predictive tendencies.
The edges of time remember a laughter lost, molten shadows casting impossibilities through transparent trajectories.
Musings in Copper echo through the aether, resonating with a specter’s casual serenade.