There's a place inside, they say, somewhere along a corridor that exists solely in reflection. Not in mirrors or glassy pools, but somewhere suspended, dripping with amber light. The thoughts linger here longer than they should. Did I tell you of the corridor where time forgets its purpose?
Voices murmuring... As if streets stretched into eternity, from whisper to shadow. Each conversation stuck in a moment just before you blinked, caught like flies in honeyed glass. Remember them all or forget none. Is it a choice or chance? Slightly tilted.
Contemplate the Unknown PathwayIt catches... The walking within us, the fine dust whispering through veins, a reminder would scathe. Caught here are the things I ponder, unanswered murmurs of an attic full of jars whisper neatly away any overwhelming excess. What rusts? What decays? Evaporate each periodic dew.
Will it rain? Sought solace from the reaching panes above, familiar, they stretch into longing unreachable places.