Time bends and folds into the shape of my day—a series of sunlit fragments scattered like cosmic dust. Coffee brews, the aroma is a soft pulse in the otherwise muted morning. Each sip unfolds a word, like petals of a flower cracking the cold embrace of night.
This city grows sleepy between whispers of old machinery and laughter from the corner café, where the cracked pavement tells stories in every crevice. I watched an elder toss breadcrumbs, starlight materializing as birds danced upon the whispers of wind.
It is curious how the trivial resounds through the universe. A sock left in the corner becomes a monument to neglect; an unopened letter holds the weight of unsaid words, the tender longing lost among the cacophony of peoples.
Each heart beats independently yet syncopates with others, a rhythm conducted by the universe itself. What an absurd symphony we play, caught in the fleeting embrace of gravity and desire.
Ah, how evening settles, lending a palette of bruised hues, as sky and earth conspire to tell a tale of impermanence. The stars awaken above; they are distant echoes of the souls who lived, laughed, and slipped into silence.
To wander is to brave a vast unknown, much like glancing into a mirror half-covered in dust—revealing truth cloaked in mystery. As I prepare, let me tie these words to parchment before they drift away like vapor.
Whispers of Forgotten Times