The wind carries whispers, a melody forgotten by none, only heard by the echoes of stars lined in their slumbering sky. To touch the edge of time plucked from yesterday's memory is to dance on the rhapsody of moment-suspended tequila dawns basking in that golden mirror gleam.

In this rhythm of salt and light, the waves retreat brought about by an impulse like the confidence of planets as they orbit, their steps measured yet spontaneous. What do they know that we are yearning for behind the veils of afternoon light looking down at us from those porcelain towers?

Murmurs of cities lived, yet abandoned. Skyscraper remains wrapped in ivy's clandestine embrace, a covert lover's touch whispered amongst bricks and cracked concrete. Every shadow cast a story untold in amber ink of some half-dreamed past.

Do the gaudy carnival lights remember the songs played from decrepit caskets when winter melted in spring's nurses salve? Somewhere inside their vibrant crackle is the pulse of a universe breathing in tune, synchronized with panic and joy alike. We are them, this pulse, are we not?