She danced to the rhythm of beneath a sun unheard and unseen, not because it was bright, but because the cloud pressed particles into her skin like ancient scripts. Halos of electric whispering failed to dampen the sound of her footsteps as they unraveled the fabric of time.
In the distant echo of clock hands resetting, she found solace in invisible ink lines curling around concepts defined by parents but forgotten by the children. Rivers cut, not by torrents but by threads of memory, unfolding like paper cranes hollowly roosting upon tears strewn on the sidewalks.
When the echo chamber murmured, its sympathetic tone vibrated through the marrow of wild dreams, skittering around corners in perpetual agnosticism towards the mornings confessed. Quiet revolutions whispered through old books; pages opened to secrets that never desired to be locked away, already unraveling from the presence of sunlight.
Letters drifted like lost moths, betrayed and hopeful, drawn toward transformations with whimbrel cries stitched through far-off villages. Twilight embraces their leaving, sweetened by promises not made, histories re-contextualized in sepia tones amidst traversing soil slopes.
Rooted forever beneath the ceaseless sweep of stars, there lies an unchanged revolution lost in the folds of time, creating scripts of sand on the edges of reality that curiously lace into patterns—drifting stories.