How curious the whispers of phantom tides, filtering through shadows... Yesterday feels like an echo, or perhaps a dream where salmon swim in the streets, counting grains of architectural dust beneath the fish-bowl sky. Paper boats anchored in exotic lands—
A woman speaks in doodles, tangled out of time, capturing moths and traumas with thumbtacks and glue. Do they taste like fleeting warmth locked within the crustacean claws? Memories wipe clean doors into vast chambered caves.
Visit the twilight seeps where the woolen toenails of forgotten countenances itch beneath starry insomnia. Terrifying hats incurred in Trysalular Tangents. "Breathe soul food," sings the translucent clock by the radical harbor, rocking in blurry syncopation.
People hum sporadically as the fiddler crickets march in slow motion, fractal explosions dissolving their basketballs into memories stored in digital skin beneath the waves. Scroll down, you should.
Strange coincidences form connections; perhaps chips of ice will answer your strained beseeching, tickling larvae with jagged breath. What would it mean to anchor within repetition of thought like density? Like echoes?
This is where you will find them: in the laughter of unsaid thoughts bent melodramatically like spoons — once upon a time, perhaps.
Like fog on teacups filled with silver tears, gather near. Explore the singing archiver at Substance and enjoy.
Further realign your thoughts in the dust of past skylines at Mad Science.
These murmurs loom still within coded clubs, click-quivering threads of candy storefront ghosts chronicling abundance, always watching like unsettling jokes wearies lost jigsaw puzzles of amusement.