The sun rises behind crumbling architecture, a white-flamed meltdown of yesterday's idealism. One shoe left in the mud.
“What is reality, really?” mused the lost child in the department store. As the clocks spun backwards, the waiting began to feel rather poetic.
These moments, electrified by the buzz of missing puzzle pieces, drip down the walls as watercolors jade each heartbeat, fleeting glimmers exhaling bittersweet resignation.
Of course, we set up rules; the world feels more comfortable under the weight of forgotten definitions.
Perhaps our products of decadence linger. Welcome to the box of pre-owned regrets. Sample our latest, “Socks for Mourning”: They never truly fit.