Once, on a Tuesday much like a forgotten Friday,
I stumbled into a coffee-scented bazaar of dreams,
ricocheting between the summer of 1969
and the whispers of tomorrow's dusk.
Wanderers spoke of a time-release exhibit
featuring the Rose Sapphire of the Lost Century,
succeeding in stirring silent passages
in the barnacle-clad tome of existence.
It was there that I charted a course
through the fog of ordinary time,
writing letters unsealed since 1882,
dipped in ink that's never dried.