The clock ticks but forgets to listen, muffled by the walls adorned with memories that never were. In the corner, a forgotten umbrella dreams of rain and puddles, while the dust gathers like an audience waiting for the punchline of a joke nobody remembers telling.
Seven forks, three spoons, and a knife that never cuts but does divide spaces into unspoken realms. Here, thoughts meander like rivers defying banks, winding through forests of webs and bricks, where sunlight hesitates to show its face, fearing the obscurity of dusk.
Whispers from chairs unoccupied, a dialogue held in the dim glow of a monitor. They speak in binary tongues, fleeting like moths around a flame. Shadows stretch and yawn, recounting the days they spent as clouds in the summer sky, far from their terrestrial roots.