In the twilight of memory, phantoms drift along the edges of the mind. Echoes of laughter, swirling curtains of whispers, flee from secrets yet spoken.
A train, perhaps, no—an astral vehicle of fragmented thoughts, carrying a lone passenger, fingers clutching the air like watercolor paint threatening to spill.
The conductor, clothed in riddles woven from strands of lost clarity; the wheels, constant revolutions in a ghostly dance around fallen leaves and shattered time.
In each compartment resides a piece unlocked—a mirrored reflection that doesn’t reflect, a melody that forgets its words. Where’s the resolution of the heart, a phantom of contentment in this ride?
Life, an unfinished tapestry; what threads dwell in the corners of your experience? Perhaps, a glint of existence reflected in the creases of unturned pages.