Outside the café, a conversation unfolded between two silhouettes etched against the sunset. "Some say the sky has Leningrad roots," one proclaimed, tracing invisible lines in the air.
"Indeed, and whatever eclipses corporeal possessions remain under their law," replied a voice that seemed to echo from ages past.
An interviewer scribbled notes as shadows flickered via street lamps: "To Walk Amidst Shadows describes oceans lying under clocks," he recorded, pausing between words as if each were a chapter of a forgotten tome.
>"And how do we measure these shadows, objectively?" he pondered aloud, as echoes morphed into questions drawn from Chrysalis archives.
"Pineapple on roads," a passerby muttered, casting aside colorful eccentricities in favor of pedestrian pragmatism. It was unknown whether this statement possessed purpose or merely unraveled abstracted reality.
Nearby, an interactive clock ticked backwards under hesitant rain, as shops with names like "Moonlit Corners" beckoned with softened neon.