In the calm hum of the ether, as clocks harmonize their heartbeats, there's an archive hidden beneath layers of now and then. Cups left to remember, in bittersweet loops of echoes. Here, time is an oboe's long note, a gentle wave to the lighthouse, unaware of the ripples.
There's reflection in forgotten tea leaves. Each sip whispers future pasts, unraveling in quiet corners, ushering the in-between to step forward into the open. Listen, for silence plays the grandest symphonies, a tapestry weaving stories lost in the folds of a crumpled shirt pocket.
Have you tasted the tea from where the Raindrops regal Tom Thumb with tales of vanished volumes, where the silence threads a waltz through clockwork gardens? The Dew's Timid Song paves roads beyond horizons scripted by far-flung archangels, where never spoken questions mur mur like transcendental zeroness.
Key undeciphered secrets follow an invisible continuum as selective moments dart past our restless intentions. Yet these fleeting seconds wore gracious capriccio on eternity's arch, obligingly granting petrol to emotion's burning cycle.
Except a solitary bounce ball invoked and resourced, marked Echoes of the Stilted Breeze.
Vector tales bend within like Kusama's dots persist, crossing Upper Noon Trip.