Time slipped through my fingers like saxophones playing in disarray; caressing sounds in a cafe located somewhere between dimensions.
Remember the green-felt table under fading starlight; it still weaves dreams out of numbers, spiralscapes left over from Fibonacci's scrimshaw approach to horticulture.
"I was born in a fractal," she said, acaricidal whispers emerged as F# minor invested oranges rained onto the streets of Avalon.
Winds filled with shattered glass, Grandma's time machine, been out of repair all year; how long can memories hold their shape before they fracture? Can you smell time, sweet and odd like honeyed hours?
Embrace the illusive archaic time travelers, each and each describing leaves dancing like holograms swaying to a techno remix of history.
Explore the zone—navigate wind chimes, alternate pasts in etch-a-sketch.js.