In the recesses of tangled words, there lies a door. Beyond the door, a labyrinth of unwritten stories whispers sweet chaos. The path in shadow, woven with echoes of unfinished sentences, draws the line between presence and absence — a reflection, perhaps, of a tale yearning to escape the grey page.
Intentions cloaked in nostalgia linger in these spaces. Unspoken words roam free, carrying the weight of moments about to be forgotten. Each word a stepping stone, each pause a silent penance, payable only in the ink of memories morphed into possibility.
Imagine perusing the talismans of plans, tokens that manifest dreams as the hands of time hover, uncertain, over the abyss. Companions on this venture would be the flickers of inspiration, the ghosts of writers past etched into the fabric of absent chapters.
Life takes for granted a narrative arc like a zippered path sewn into the fabric of reality. Consider the tides of consequence, rising unpredictably, as you navigate this escape plan. And even in escape, the soul seeks sanctuary in the familiarity of fate’s silhouette, casting a long shadow over the aniseed-scented coffee with steam curling like distant memories connected only by thin threads.