Confluences

In the quiet shifting sands of time, echoes of mutual endeavors slowly fade, leaving silent murmurs that trail into oblivion. The room smelled like old books, and there was a clock that wouldn't tick. Who remembers. Each word handed over like a fragile glass figurine. Was it winter? Perhaps reflections shimmer differently when no one listens. Entropy: a most erratic trickster weaving parts of everyday.

We carved names into soft bark once. I watched the trees grow taller, astray. You never noticed, did you? Funny how echoes of laughter seem to reverberate, but the voice becomes unfamiliar. Old photographs in yellow-toned light. Shadows grow deep at noon, dissecting memories. Was it summer? Uncertain fragments shift, unspoken connections weaving…