In the quiet hours, when synthetic crickets chirp through long corridors and neon lights pulse with muted colors, I hear them—whispers curling like smoke around memory-deckled clocks. They murmur truths of tomorrows not yet worn, dreams reflected in puddles of light and shadow.
A feather's dance upon waves of reality, where each ripple promises change, its echo sinking beneath the surface of today.
The market square hums with echoes of voices hummed back from futures untrodden. A child clings to a rusted kite, dreams paper-stamped on its threadbare fabric, weaving stories of places yet to be. Strange things permitted by long-lost rules of the earth and sky, tethered to the winds of fate.
A voice, deeper than the ocean’s song, flows through the alleys of thought. Sometimes it speaks regret, sometimes wonder—a dialect formed before stars clashed into the night.
Sometimes I ask what these paths hold, but they answer in riddles—a map drawn on mist.