Time is a fabric, often frayed at the corners, whispering breezes of untold narratives from days that might have never existed, yet sung by the symphony of fate. Tracing beyond the horizon of the present moment, the thread of each life often slants into divergent paths. Do you recall the day the future reached back and touched your shoulder?
I was about savoring the cool morning shadows on the rue bed, Paris in '29, when an old man sidled up beneath my balcony. Clad in a long ochre coat, he had a scent of clove and something antique, perhaps worn dreams embroidered with distant light. We spoke paradoxes over simple borderless moments, much like ducks swimming through vaporous fog, peacefully unaware of the wavering horizon's edge.
Perhaps it was his tales of circling constellations that casts small ripples upon our known river of time - briefly stopping to laugh over a shared invisibility - or those half-formed memories of moments that remain just out of our spatial grasp. All became blur, feelings tethered to improbable events, lost to plausible realities. The coalescing of spaces where yesterdays and tomorrows bend, beneath the cotton cloud stretches.