The ink flows like rivers turned crimson, a residue of echoes left behind by forgotten hands. The clock ticks backward here, in this space where yesterday whispers to tomorrow. I am but a shadow of the presence, a figment woven into the tapestry of ages past.
In the corridors of time, I see the specters of old, clad in velvet and whispers, their eyes reflecting the glow of incandescent moons that never rose. Here, the tea is always steeped too long, bitter and sweet, a concoction of memories.
Navigate the labyrinth of my thoughts, through corridors lined with crimson. Does the world still spin? Or has it paused, contemplating its own reflection in a puddle of forgotten stardust?
Fragments of Memory