Did you know that the sound of rain is nothing but a prelude, an epilogue caged within the confines of a metal roof? Sometimes, I think about the things we let slip through, like a forgotten note left to float on the surface of consciousness.
I met a ghost once; it rented space in my mind, charging by the hour. Its name was Am8, a composite of transient feelings, the bits of joy hollowed out into shapes of somber gray. It spoke in colors, colors that painted the walls of my memory, weaving patterns reminiscent of autumn leaves pirouetting through a bustling street.
"Will the wind carry me too?" it sighed, a question hung between us like stale air in an empty room. Perhaps it knew I was here for the company, just to share the strangest of tales and eternal musings.
Each thought, fleeting, sometimes sticky under the weight of presence— where do they go when the mind unclutches, releasing fragments like dandelion seeds caught in the current?