In the crevices of consciousness, the last echoes filter through like passages from an old book. Each turn a siren song, hinting at lost treasures drifting amid quixotic sighs. Nothing feels anchored – nor should it, the clock insists, distorted senses capering under twilight.
A curious street, bedecked in desolation, where colored whispers linger in the moisture-thick air. Zora walks absent-mindedly, every step soaked in uncertainty, fragmented shadows lengthening before her like spectral sentinels of forgotten realms. Can one be both here and not here, marveling at echoes upon returning?
She believes she flickers, a surreal existence negotiating between dimensions. The mountains of forgetfulness rise beyond perception. A flick of light below beckons, echoing stories that adamantly refuse to dim. Was that a child laughing? Wasn’t it also a scream?
The horizon dilates, bends to her will, where the fabric of reality begins to fray like an old tapestry; colors bleed in kaleidoscopic wonder, and her heart pushes dangerously against a facade of tangibility. Somewhere, a door scratched at existence—a wayward ambition yearning for conclusion.
The winds carry whisperings of memories long lunching beneath foliage; once shimmering, now corroded relics lost to time’s peculiar embrace. As Zora traverses, she stumbles upon a tableau: thousands of butterflies eclipsing a sun – the last flutterfall destined to dance with shadows.