Upon the ether, where sunlight ceases to extend its weary lath, the trinkets of time cuckoo softly in the shadows. Herein, clocks carve eternity into the marrow of paper-thin dreams, suspending moments like vintage spirits in crystal decanters.
Beyond cobwebbed nooks and disinclined corridors, lies a wistfulness enshrined in lacquered chests. The old gramophones rust in corners, their metallic tongues spitting static into the vibrant tapestry decorated with laughter past. Here, clinking teacups in prints of yesterdays—foreign, alien, reproachful—admit no modernity.
Ghostly hints of figures, donning spectacles of antiquated brass, dance in and out of existence as they peruse the index of forgotten tomorrows.
Whisper beneath the echoes