"Do you remember when the sky was blue?" It echoes, doesn't it, like ripples in a pond that nobody touches.
"I never asked for silver spoons," she mumbled, her face fading into texture like pale ink on paper.
The clock insists on its dance, tick-tock the rhythm of an absent heart, echo.html.
Caught in webs with the slightest breeze, spiders sing songs of departure, pathway.html.
He sees colors invisible to our eyes, visions unraveling like stories never told before, cryptic.html.
"Where do dreams go when they sleep?" A question from nowhere, answered by the silence of everythingness.