Red, red, the mind spins, the clock ticks backward, chiming for the unborn stars that whisper secrets, twisting vines of past regrets finding purchase in shadows dense, heavy with history... where do they lead but here, staring at invisible horizons.

I followed them once, the echoes of a solitude serenade, sitting solitaire upon the edge of nowhere, sweet void, crystalline as remembered dreams. Upward now! Downward extinguished! Red, so much red, blurring lines between sense and synapse, always returning, the same questions unformed.