In the recesses of unmarked archives, memories linger,
like whispers caught in shattered glass, refracted truths.
Layers upon layers of pixelated dreams,
entwined shadows dance amidst the stillness.
What is memory, but a fleeting hologram?
making every conscious moment a paradox.
There exists a document, folded neatly,
timestamps etched with the melancholic sigh of time.
They sealed it with the ink of forgotten promises.
Amidst infinite decay, attention flits, grasping at
pixels that fade, leaving impressions in twilight zones.
Are we gazers or ghosts in the vault of time?