Have you ever felt the warmth of a distant sunset linger long after the bulb flickers off? It's like collecting forgotten moments, each lumens a memory bursting with laughter, fading echoes of toasts made on rooftops. Each flicker holds us—do we really know the source of our light?
The table holds a coffee cup, chipped rim reflecting ten thousand lives, perhaps not specifically ten thousand, but you get the gist. It’s mirrored in the eyes of the barista; is she a luminous goddess or merely caught in the whirlwind of morning rush?
Every conversation sheds light—some soft, others scintillating like stars. “Is that even a thing?” they ask, trying to grasp a piece of the ever-elusive statement. “It’s like tasting colors,” someone replies, and we all nod although none of us truly understand.
We are the sum of our shadows, the echoes of laughter bouncing against walls; what if they could be projected like film? Can one taste the sunlit whispers or the gloaming sighs of spectral echoes?