The clock ticks in its forgotten mark, just whispers of moments, slipping into cracks. Are we not constantly changing our skins, lurking within the whispers and doubts of twilight?
Do tapestries woven with moments hang wistfully shrieking, watched by shadowed eyes beneath distorting veils of light? She waits there, smiling faintly, amidst echoes refusing to vanish.
Ghostly echoes cling to the desolate path we trod, and the velvet strings pluck stories of days distant yet familiar. Have you seen them? Statues of ourselves turned *away to sea*.
Litanies of the nameless repeat in soft pledges, and through every word, the sky weeps radiant grey. We turn away, leaving only shadows, mere silhouettes to embrace the fog.
A riddle of thorns lies ahead, ineffable, intransigent, bearing tales yet threaded or cut; silent is the question caught in tremors of dreams withdrawn beneath spectral veils intertwined with stars.
Wasn’t it yesterday, or perhaps the day before? We noticed, we wandered, we remember—do we? The answer, dear friend, is always a fleeting spectral dream.