Hit the right button on a Sunday morning, and suddenly you’re in Paris. Or so she thought, staring out the window at a bird perched dreamily on the telephone line. You ever wonder how they decide which wire to sit on? Makes you question the logic of it all. Maybe she spoke that thought earlier to a pizza delivery guy, or was it in an email to her boss? Decisions, decisions.
Once, under a different moon, at a junction not unlike this one, a friend said the best stories come from half-spoken whispers in libraries. Could be just about any library, really. Concrete jungles or small-town havens. She liked that thought. Maybe she’d hear it again from a barista in an indie café, just before they accidentally spilled a matcha latte on their own apron.
Door with K stories mingle with sketches of fallen stars, each unreal rendezvous leaves a mark like the aroma of fresh espresso lingering after sunset.
A quick glance at the clock shows another forgotten minute. Not that time cares. But remember this: moments sometimes slip through fingers and you're left measuring pieces of speech, like fractions in a math problem that only appears to make sense in a dream state.