Solid fade into words unsaid, The echo above routines extends, Blueprints of principles buried yet seem to breathe.
This city's pulse is found in the ticking of clocks forgotten on dijon walls. Listen closely to the hollow murmur weaving through alleyway widows.
Sixty-nine ways to violate the nocturne, where shadows hold the vestiges of conversation left untended by the light and sound conspire.
Infrastructure: An obligatory facility lay dormant under the guise of systematic simplicity. A fork in thought, a diversion in dream...
There are moments when the citizens forget their own breathing; it becomes synchronized with the perforated rhythm of disappeared dogmas.
bookshelf downpour pastry