Upon a threadbare carpet of existence, the dust dances in nonconformity. Lost dreams tumble through open windows, where echoes call from half-formed thoughts and forgotten fears.
Tomorrow is the teetering promise, tepid in its delivery. Words whispered into the void remain suspended like fallen feathers. Do they resonate?
Time quivers, a spine of unstable shadows. Connect with earlier imaginings. Sway like seasons unseen, tinted in neverland hues.
Unravel the quiet tapestry of windswept lanes; they weave stories silkier than breath, and colder than the touch of insipid fate.
Click to expand, to shrivel. Who would sup on petrichor dipped in luminous despair?