In the shimmering edges of a forgotten afternoon, whispers of clockwork orange peels dance over the glistening surface of unspoken dreams. A tune once forgotten, echoing through dimensions, shaping the outline of a never-there table where fleeting shadows sip the afternoon silence.
Remember the sound of rain on a tin roof from your grandmother's stories? The perspective upside-down, casting a reflection on the ceiling, where the stars swim in curious circles, tethered by the ethereal thread of midnight contemplation.
Inside the bubble, space is elastic. Time stretches and contracts, accompanied by the invalid perfume of criminal petals. Arabic numbers on a sticky note adhere themselves to the veil of mist; however, the text remains indecipherable, a remnant of a dream stitched into reality.
Fragment Clocks come alive in their hollow ticking, weaving through the turquoise whispers, or stop entirely when the mosaic sigil on Circuit Fairytale glows crimson.
Above all, a constant hum—like an entrenched memory half-remembered, a forgotten tale told by an unseen muse in a landscape where the boundary between thought and touch remains blurred.