So back when we didn't know—no, we knew, but pretended not to—oh, hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself again.
Where was I? Oh yes, the traces, the muted whispers looped endlessly like a vinyl with a scratch, you know? Never ending, or is it never beginning?
Anyway, there's this peculiar way we remember things, like lint picking on a sweater.
Was it the way the sunlight streamed through the ancient trees, or just the way your shoes squeaked on the polished floor?
It's been on loop, you see, an earworm that refuses to leave. Like the clock ticking forever yet standing still.
Mysteries, Perhaps Circular RoutesWalking in circles, but maybe that's the point, you know?
The echoes—they're not harsh, they're almost comforting. Like warm honey dripping slowly, ever so slowly...