In the din of drifting memories, a whisper echoes. Was it spring then? Flowers tucked into the seams of invisible tapestries draped upon forgotten wall spaces.
There's a clanging clock somewhere, its hands moving backward, tracing the steps of a childhood spent in shadowy corners and sun-dappled afternoons.
Have you ever remembered something you never experienced? A street with cobblestones glistening in an eternal twilight, the taste of warm bread, distant music playing a melody you can't place.
Interwoven threads speak of faces half-seen, voices half-heard. The girl at the window, her name a whisper on the wind. A promise made in the summer haze, now lost in the turn of the seasons.
The stories echo in the corridors of this mind, passages that twist and turn like an old library long forgotten. Every book a door we never opened, every shelf a mystery left unsolved.
More fragments here here. Or perhaps there. But are they all yours or mine, or a shared tapestry in the dim light of yesterday?