The pavement whispers secrets of long-lost breadcrumbs, beneath layers of paint and hope.
Here the clocks tick counter-clockwise, each tick a paradox unfolding.
Some say the roads dream of horizons, but the asphalt yawns wide, swallowing visions whole.
A solitary lamppost flickers, humming an ancient tune in an unknown dialect. It cries out in Morse, a lament not meant for ears.
Above, the sky wears a frown—a tapestry of forgotten clouds woven by delicate hands of absurdity.
Footsteps echo in reverse; they recount stories never lived by those who never walked.