The clock ticks in quantum syncopation, shadows dance in erratic patterns; echoes of laughter bounce off fractured walls.
A vagrant thought, adrift in the night; fragility stitched with silver threads, weaving narratives of yesterdays missed.
To lose a memory is to hold a feather; its weightless charm, clinging to the spine of an unturned page.
Time unravels, a spool of threads, glistening, catching light and dark, mingling with the dust of forgotten dreams.
Broken mirrors reflect kaleidoscopic truths; the faces form and dissolve like mist in sunrise.
Home is an uncarved stone, untouched by memory; resilient in its silence, speaking in echoes.