Flickering between sunlight and shadow, a memory drifts in kaleidoscopic reverie—once we ate rainbows, now they dissolve into whispers, dissonant notes forgotten in darkened corners. Shadows dance while time wears thin, unspooled dreams slip, glimmering shards of reminiscence shimmering in the twilight of wonder.
Transparency echoes, reflections of lives once lived suspend, entwined in frets of infinity—a phone call unanswered wrapped in silence, a letter burned in the fireplace—a fruitless endeavor igniting embers of half-aspirations scattered like winter confetti across the heart’s canvas. Light the void, let it leak and swell like tide against stone.
Pale geometries of morning long forgotten grasp pointed straws in hands of clock places. When did we stop collecting fallen stars? Creating visions of distant horizons fading like cigar smoke in a forgotten corner of a sleepy diner. Who sits reminiscing the taste? An odd blend of vanilla and despair? Below the mountains, the shadows stretch longer, pulsing, waiting to echo back.
Imagine a compass broken, its needle spinning harmlessly to midnight's chime, around the hour seem woven by dreams translated into doctrine—a circus of consciousness, deep and echoing. The marionettes dance while shadows balloon within soft tissue of nothingness.