Forgetting is a gift; a dusty shelf of twinkling night in a storm. Haze like whispers motivations in nebulous cities of sound,
winds blow their grievances and I listen with bone-porous ears. Thus begins... a sequence, of failing clocks and frayed edges,
crawling nocturnes echo softly, grappling with spaced elements. Are fish flying or do the petals hum?
Within the thrum of dust motes caught in warm sunlight, the numbers twist and speak—the meeting of objects,
the dance of time blurred. We stumble upon invisible portals, whilst thick fog embraces the memories
that never find their syllables. Questioning means already falling into abstract dreams, figures formed yet never grasped.
Can we ever engage with the distance in overlapping dimensions of edges? Or merge screams with a sigh of colors -
a pink uncanny longings enshrined in bytes?