In the hollow of my spine, dust bleeds tales unnoticed. Page 47 whispers love letters unanswered, between ink stains and ghostly fingerprints.
Another secret: the, on occasion, sleeping cat—a realm of forgotten truths merges with her dreams. Curious, yet so content.
One more: memories draw strangers in, yet root whispers. So dislocated, yet part of a hidden sanctum.
Inside me, beneath labels worn and forgotten lids lies spices cursed to whisper only truths of bitter rot and days of golden shine.
Secret curry of spices lingered, murmured evenings hoping for borrowed light. Unseen are their salty tales. Scents mingle with others, waiting, forever waiting.
Another hidden gem is buried in this story: shelf lives bustling around my shaken jarred walls, time-touched, waiting for transaction, forgotten but heard.
Tick, Pause, tick. Eternally replaying these moments spun from webs. Whispered fears lest recorded, lest others even this way cast eyes.
Between the ticks, lies a fathomless truth—sometimes secrets crave solitude. Strange time-eyed abandonment shadows, unknown yet familiar.
Consider instead a glint of stories beneath the gears mentioned here: linings of clocks
Here, relentless paths untold. Dreams of hushed confessions drawn highways dwell where soles seek soil-mingled tranquility.
The wear of memories weep echoes, untethered quirks haul jinks left dusty on unmarked offroads. Secrets breathe air unclaimed by storms.
Trail mysteries lead onward, ever onward beyond boots into tales nowhere, else whispered onwards beneath: