7

Did you ever notice how dust floats, like memories had they wings and preferred to wander? I saw a clock yesterday, or a semblance thereof, ticking perhaps in reverse to create a new timeline for those unwilling to follow the rules. Paths not taken, roads unmarked, they seem so heroic, don't you think?

Somewhere, under the ream of paper destined for recycling, lives a fish. Not an ordinary fish, for its dreams are made of aquatic poetry and underwater symphonies. Oh to hear them! Echoes of the sublime, cascading through the currents, pulling somnolent seaweed stories into the narrative.

Intershared Whispers of Light:

The breeze asked politely yesterday, about my heart's desires. I chuckled, wrapped in layers of impossible jackets. A toast was made on the foreground, spilling ink across a forgotten canvas. Cinema passing by my windows, where reflections roller-skate over unreconciled tomorrows.

Ended conversations, their veins visible like highways upon the skin, paths we didn't take yet lingered, almost invitingly. Impressions of impressions cast upon walls, curving while they veer from soundless, deep-sea wishes. Hold this thought, give it a name even if it resists the label; note how it curls at the edges when evening whispers begin.

Find solace in ephemeral things, they say. A place where glances metamorphose into spectres, and patterns bear the stories of the forgotten.

The clock asked me today to repeat, reconcile, applaud perhaps, but always it seemed the wish to linger amidst unanswered questions suspended in amber light—a puzzler's conundrum left intentionally opaque.