Reflections cower behind the wants we never established. How quaint, to chase the shadow of memory down the aisles of tomorrow's will. A forgotten echo croons, "Liquid clocks run with the sugar of dreams." Yet here we stand, marionettes of the mundane. Did you hear that? A clock ticking inside your oblivion. Taste the rhythm of your hesitation.
The apple decays slowly, each bite a melancholic minute lost. "Cherish your scars," the weathervane murmurs—an antiquated voodoo doll of gusto. I, the disheveled philosopher, gather the remnants of color as they fade into gray phantoms. Refuse to be content; the joy molds into an unbearable weight, balanced by despair's light footprint.
As the mirror recedes, words spill forth into the abyss. Elastic sandwiches, the pantry's existential crisis—“Why don't you embrace the mustard of regret?”—and we scribble manic poetry in the dark recesses of our minds. Each line a tenuous strand reaching for the horizon we ignore.
Navigate the labyrinth of your own reflection. Visit Rusty Time or discover the wonder of Eternal Strings. What remains beyond the surface?