You know, sometimes I wonder about those little memories, like the faint smell of rain on hot asphalt. They come and go, whispering stories only half remembered, like dreams fading at dawn.
The other day, I found an old notebook stuffed in a drawer, full of doodles and fragments of thoughts. "Monkey see, monkey mirror," I wrote once. Curved paths and reflections, reflecting... reflections.
Of all places, the strange cafeteria tables we used to sit around. Noisy chatter morphs into thin faces etched across time, like smoke—momentary, evasive smoke. We'll never really know why those moments stuck, but here we are.
Everyone walked the same beige hallways, carried the oversized backpacks sporting mysterious patches, replete with untold stories. We connected paths like unseen map makers, threading truths amid fiction.
So where does one tune the forgotten song from earbuds that never knew silence? Such intersections lead to decision ebbed pools cooling memories.
And one more thought, between starsous halfway dreams, each plaster watch ticking its own rhythm. Term of time wander echoes with century's schema.