A whisper caught in a thunderstorm of yesterday's rhythm parades through the corridors untouched by sound.
Did the mountains ever dream? Or was it the lakes reflecting suns yet to set?
Turning... turning turning memories executed by imagination.
Unmarked dances in sifted silence. The clock leans back, laughing, knowing that minutes spilling from its maw drown time in forgotten seas.
An echo of wind searching for lost stories in pockets of coat sleeves. Where do we find ourselves without destinations or maps?