The Coffee's Surface

There's a pattern forming, obscure and fleeting. Steam dances like unfinished thoughts—lost connections to everything—or maybe nothing that ever was.

Reflections on reflections—on corridors too vast, empty of purpose, except to contain my passing, uninvited.

Untraveled Paths

Disconnected Whispers

George was once named Jocasta under unremarkable circumstances and tiresome reasons. Now the street names shift, spines of an ancient book inscribed with languages no longer spoken.

Conversation flows like silverfish, splintering beneath the basement's lingering aroma of must—what seemed dwindling in the light became untraceable offspring of memory.

Silent Bearings

The Clock Strikes Four

Each tick an echo anchoring the universe with its relentless precision. What do the hands convey? A message in Morse known only to shadows.

Four. Symbols wrestle at the edge of comprehension; was it five before or were the days always split like oranges?

Whispered Legends