Once, beneath the specters of twilight, we brushed past undefined truths that scattered like whispers among the trees. Musings occasionally coalesced into coherent thoughts, yet often unraveling like the vines on weathered stone. Our lives were stitched together, our fingerprints an acknowledgment, each name a breath. The clocks, they taunt us and echo.
Counting minutes poured as sand does from weary fingers; we sighed through directions no longer aligned with intention. Packaging dreams in boxes labeled ‘What ifs?’ left us consumers of hollow promises.
We hear voices drift beside us in the wind, lurking and flourishing—pulse of a familiar hum, resembling laughter snatched away. Shadows trail us, lingering by doorways of casual encounters, inquiries unanswered, absorbing weighty thoughts. Connections threaded on whispered fate, where one’s heart hums in the symphony of machines.
“What’s next?” Am I too absorbed by the prologue of specters to acknowledge the unfolding scenes? Do we peer into the abyss only to find reflections of our future selves?
Links slip through fingers: Unraveling Knots, Echoes in Forgotten Rooms.