Have you ever walked a path and felt the presence of footprints that are not your own? Coasting along air currents, weaving stories from snippets of conversations heard through paper-thin walls. Yeah, those stories are partly yours, partly mine, all tangled up in the asylum of minds watching paint dry and the fences of yesterday.
Reflect on that while sipping a caffeine puddle at the corner café; people piled high around the chipped tables, all juggling dreams masked as daily tasks.
Echoes speak when you listen, you know? Like this geranium outbidding the ferocious rain. Geraniums... they always have the last say around here.
"You remember that orange when it screamed daylight robbery? Hiding amidst shadows, nested in tactile oblivion!"
The shadows remembered, though, following the thief with the citrus tongue. Streets spoke, not in words but in hidden alcoves and whispered truths.
The lunatic—a relic of forgotten dialects and dystopian discourses—continues to vocalize under streetlights that flicker like uncertain flames.