Whispers of the dawn, they linger as shadows, twisting through the labyrinth of echoes. Distant, yet so familiar—the unknowing recognition. Is this the scent of yesterdays, or merely the aftermath of forgotten tomorrows?
A fusion of footsteps patterned in an empty sky; silence punctuated by the soft call of a timeworn clock, each tick reverberating into the expanse of tranquility. Alone, yet woven together—threads connecting moments lost.
Alone in the grocery aisle of the heart, hunting decaying fruits of thought, I bathe in the glow of muted fluorescent dreams. Surreal imports from forgotten marts and whispers of longing rendezvous.
What's behind the reflective veil? - A language spoken in hushed tones echoes through the corridors unvisited, beckoning unguarded curiosity.
A flickering light introduces itself like a ghost, “Remember me?” it teases, bearing no resemblance to the moon that once embraced your eyes—yet illuminated a path through constellations unsought.
Wisps of forgotten intentions collide like atoms spun in abstraction. The crux of existence hinges on such paradoxes—time is an illusion strung tight with the threads of this solitude.