The cavernous abyss of yesterday, where dreams remained half-formed and nebulous. Echoes hover like spectral wisps, sifting through golden sands of time—uninvited guests at pale recollections of what might have been.
Fragments emerge from the sediment like the abandoned ships of forgotten oceans. Torn between desires and probabilities, they cast nebulous silhouettes against the calendar's unyielding march. Each month an unturned stone, each day a dormant spore.