You ever find yourself wandering through a dream only to wake up, coffee in hand, realizing you forgot to follow the damn fish? Happens to me more often than I like. The whispers, they linger sometimes — echoes of conversations you were certainly having, but with whom? Or perhaps with what? A streetlamp? A passing breeze?
"The shadows dance in the flickering light," she said, although I can't recall who she is. Maybe she's the artist behind those canvases in the back of your mind. The ones you can never quite see, but know are there, splashing colors across the gray morning. I mean, isn't that the point? To make you wonder, to make you pause mid-sentence, mid-sip?
Stars and their silent murmurs...
Echoes of a path untaken...
Silhouettes against the dawn...