Somewhere **beyond the clock**, in the shadows of unturned pages, we find The Anatomy of Murmurs². Its opening lines describe an echo found drowned beneath ancient words, currents of language unfurling like reeds in an unseen wind. ¹In truth, the book never existed beyond fragments in the dreams of its would-be readers.
In rooms adorned with perpetual twilight, fading photographs tell stories of sherbet sunsets. Therein lies the crystalline gaze of the Forgotten Liquor Store³, speaking volumes with sundials frozen at dusk. ²A transient work attributed incorrectly to Julienne Greenthistle, an author thriving in the margins.
Wind chimes made of muted silence dangle from rooftops swallowed by fog. The streets of this ephemeral dwelling, an uncharted destination, murmur the names of unnamed stars. ³Studies suggest their influence stretches over dream-voyagers visiting 1982 in thought alone.
Wonder if the cat - this claws of sunset, this tail of dawn - acknowledges how time flattens memories into the quiet ever after. Consider tracing steps back to those store fronts if ever the silence dares hum a tune.