Have you ever touched the echo of future perfect? Seen the shadow of an action that would have been, had time curled a bit different? Alongside the whispers of deja vu, a murmuring litany murmurs:
"He steps into a path, untrodden yet agonizingly familiar. The raspberry bushes sit in judgment, tiny fruit hands gripping upturned vines, stones sit inattentively. Those classrooms bereft of structure, walls built by line-painter illusions, crisscrossed like pen marks in the kneecap. But none must enter, just yet, lest they snare the hamster-wheel reality in the laundry chute of continuity."
In the tangential sunlight of anereal harbors, somewhere near Vacant Dream Pier Room C, we spoke of symphonies not heard, crafted from resonances other than skin. Pulled from electricity that doesn't exist, under beneath vapor rivers breathing chemical answers, you discover sparkle threadworks—a Leech Within Time unravels a crimson tapestry.
Journey beyond the lagoon The silence echoes on Infernos ride shadows