We fix the edges of thoughts that blur into non-existence. Weaved into secrecy, none shall know the hidden truth. Here, in the soothing hum of non-being, fragments are restored.
"The clockmaker in the attic," she whispered, "was never really there."
Words spoken under a sigh, echoing across landscapes of slumber. We host the festivals of fleeting syllables, guiding lost minds towards ephemeral realms.
"Silent as the sound of invisible footsteps," he wrote, "across the still waters of time."