The old walls still remember.
The whispers breathe from behind bricks, voices tinged with hues of forgotten hues. Records once etched, now lost beneath the skin of time.
Across {{ the shadowed corridor, }} lies a log noted in quiet secrecy. Time's tantrums drag genes backwards and forwards. In these modest logs, mundane changes reincarnate continental shifts.
Fragments remain, eroded by relentless tender touches of growth. Stories blend into artifacts, echoing with phantom steps. You lean closer, but it's nothing personal — what's logical is obligatory.
Gravity smooths the absurd paths into palimpsest folds; unreadable lines shape constellations
Embrace echoes of yesterday, or cast the longer sighs past early morrow's eaves.