Awash in evening's crimson tide, the whispering echoes trail implosions of laughter that seem more like dreams than destinations. Do I see myself, fragmented and paused beneath flickering streetlamps or blurred through cascading rains?
We turn down illusionary pathways, threads unraveling behind, azaleas blooming a sweet, melancholic anthem against neglected fences. Forgotten hands imprint stories in distant echoes, leave prints of anchorless thoughts brushed across tides of sand.
The clock ticks—are we elapsed innovations or visions in nostalgic mirror-waves seeking comforting haze? Let us wander; they say, apart yet together, facing the cascading folds of fog, the knots of time dissolving like wisped night.
escape into verdant whispers...silhouettes emerge, dance beyond illusion...