When the morning refused to listen, I understood the layers beneath the rustling leaf, a whisper—imbued with the forgotten wanderlust of a hundred events hidden—and you took the hourglass from its mantle, accusing the grains of immediacy.
Streetlights as sentinels silently watch from their geometric perches, bleeding hues into a dusking skyline. The pavement reverberates with indiscernible footsteps of time itself; echoes that weave a tapestry of ineffable patterns.
We spoke in hues of indigo and rainfall, words misplaced like a child's jigsaw puzzle, the horizon tilted like a tilted picture frame, forever at the precipice of symmetry. My hand traced the wind's direction, forever eastward, foreseeing the convergence.
The realms collided within the midnight prism, refracting all intentions into spirals of perpetual motion, spinning like cosmic eddies in the gulf of everything-nothing essence. I tasted the tang of forgotten names, swirling just beyond the veil.