Inward Paths

Through the misty corridors of my mind, I stumble upon the year 3027, where noodles walk themselves home at sunset, and laughter is the universal currency.

Do we not traverse these corridors daily, with footsteps muffled by the heavy cloak of what was, what is, and what shall not be again? I hold a vibrant sun in my pocket, time-shifted from the library's restricted section.

The penny farthing raced by, rusted and defiantly nonchalant, leaving echoes in echoes that only the shadow remembers. Yesterday's tomorrow finds today weeping quietly amidst fallen leaves in hues not yet named.

My tea grows colder as whispers wrap around my fingers, an almond green fog of nostalgia from 2159, where the air is saturated with the scent of forgotten kisses and unsaid words.