A house glimpsed at the edge of memory, wildflowers sprawled in haphazard riots hint at lost afternoons...
The taste of rain on wilted copper, something remembered, sweet confection on your tongue—a child laughed? You turned.
Clock hands like dancers leaving shadows on stone. Will they return? Does it matter? You've wandered here before.
The void uncannily a place of no vastening open spaces... containment of thought: unstill, unmade echoes calling.
They said "Do not touch the sky, it's fragile here" but what touched back, a linger in your mind?