Across the sea of imagined echoes, ripples attempt to form—each one's destination unknown, yet echoing a persistent longing.

I saw a yellow dog at a cafe, writing poetry about the moon. Why do such visions only mock our sober understanding?

Dreams as circles, lines crossing—overlapping truths transcending time.

Your thoughts crack, your delusions scratch, but who will ever know the way to repair this psychic rift? An echo whispers the answer, but it skips like a stone, perpetually out of reach. Restore, restore, restore...

You've dressed the problem in irony, haven't you? A suit tailored from lies, a tie woven with the silken threads of forgotten intentions.

Did you hear the clock last night? Ticking, ripping seams in the fabric of solitude, its language both familiar and foreign. Charts of decay were drawn by hands unseen.

The screen flickers—What's in the circle?—and another thought is interrupted, rendered less than its potential.