In the lands where lost histories seep through the cracks of concrete realities, we find the droll tales of yesterday that have been bled into poetry. Who knew the bureaucrats could wield such malicious pens?
The sun sets – an ironical twist on the horizon of forgotten hopes. Blink and you might find yourself unwittingly rewriting the script of a play no one remembers auditioning for.
“Remember the dance of the bees?” “But they never sang,” she replied, as clocks unravelled and started ticking backward into ancient echoes.
Desires scribbled on napkins, now painstakingly displayed in the Museum of Erasures – a tribute to the wishes that never found their tongue.
Your journey brings forth the final mosaic – click on choices that devour the past with the gourmet irony of a growth spurt.
Navigate your own ghost town: