In the dim glow of twilight, identities sift through my fingers like grains of sand. An inquiry emerges into the ephemeral; needles beneath the surface, always shifting, always elusive. What does it mean to belong in a world that is relentless in its disassembling and reassembling of self?
A thread of consciousness ties together stray observations—a crooked smile here, a fleeting bow there. Each moment is pinned down, yet possesses the power to metamorphose the observer. The needle, delicate, persistent, penetrates the fabric of solitude, seeking understanding in overlooked prophecies.
The journalistic pursuit continues. I find solace in reflected dialogues, worn paths whispering stories untold. Objective narration falters, intertwining with the personal—a compass in chaotic endeavor.
Three-Braided Thread Lost Souls Intermittent Echo