The needle of a ship's compass spins wildly, caught between tomorrow's breeze and yesterday's explosion. Sunlight threads through the whispers of a clock that no longer ticks, weaving garments of ethereal moments, capturing the dance of shadows in daylight's embrace.

Anachronisms parade down the streets of now, wearing hats from centuries past, their shoes cracking the pavement of forgotten futures. An elevator in a jungle of steel ascends, its destination lost in the algorithm of dreams— the destination none remember, nor choose to remember, choosing instead the infinite.

There is always a thread, binding the unbound, stitching the unwoven. Shears of distant memories cut through the fabric of what-is, what-was, and what-might-be. A distant sun shines on the cotton of reality, the loom of existence humming the song that was never written, never sung, but eternally in the back of consciousness like an old friend's melody echoing through the corridors of time's imagination.