"I know the sound of the drip—tick, tick, tick; an uncertain metronome marking uneven shadows that swell and shrivel back, each drop orchestrating a slow degradation of time itself."
"They spoke of laughter amidst the ruins yet their faces glimmer like faded photographs, obsidian memories lost in echoes of words unspoken and dreams weathered like granules of sand filtering through desperate fingers."
"Maps transformed into whispers, the corridors winding into nothings as I became the hollow echo, calling into darkened voids—was it my voice returning or merely the ghosts of conversations not yet begun?"
"What remains in abandoned places sprinkles the ground, the last distant hypotheticals singing their siren songs, leading me deeper; reaching forth with logrithmic precision as questions reverberate between the símapagus of our existence, lost yet wanting."