I wandered through the alleys of fading memories, where streets are paved with echoing whispers and buildings whisper forgotten names. Within the shadows, I heard the stories that never found daylight, tales tangled within the cobwebs of time. It's a curious feeling, navigating these realms as if reporting on life forms that float past like ships in a turbulent night.
Each step petrifies a moment that dissolves into the ether just as soon as it's grasped—a journalistic endeavor adorned in the fabric of transience. Here, every memory flutters like the wings of a moth against the vast clamor of the moonlit void.
We are but fragments, recordings of a life unmeasured: lost souls charting local histories of belonging without the comforts of land or title. Yet, in our quarantine of cosmos, the snapshots find a purpose within wetlands of nostalgia and roads amid cosmic forests.