Dreams curl like smoke, dissipating quietly into the clock’s ticking. Each second like a whisper carries fragments of forgotten lullabies.
In the distance, a melody plays, pulling the heartstrings taut, unraveling recitations of tales left untold. Maybe it was the color of the sky that day—a muted gray stretching endlessly, like an unfinished letter.
Save your thoughts, they drift away, bound by invisible threads to the echoes of a long-lost conversation. “Do you remember watercolors?”
Breaking glass, the silence is swallowed whole—
On the edge of reality, the horizon fluctuates, every step forward feeling like regression, an elegy revisited. Where does the road lead, slipping through fingers like fine sand?
Sunflowers turn away from the sun, their long shadows tell stories—whispers of drowning suns that smoldered in secret.
“Milk and honey,” a voice echoes, tender yet deserted. The taste remains: bittersweet, always simmering.
Look closer, here lies hope, faded. Tied by strings of silence to faces blurred in photographs, always needing more light.
Shadows recede, reflections reminisce as voices murmur hours into loneliness. When will the orchestra play a requiem for moments made, then unmade?
Fleeting thoughts dash past like fireflies caught in a storm—guided, but never home.
Shall we undo the clutter? Numbers flash simultaneously—synaptic sparks waiting in patterns unfathomable.