Time, a relentless whisper, like fog rolling over a distant hill, unfurls itself in a spool of moments, fleeting and ethereal, where shadows dance with echoes.
Do not think of the walls, they are but silhouettes of dreams bobbing to the rhythm of ineffable sighs. Perhaps the sky spins futures that we cannot grasp, or stories that live in the spaces between breaths, where thoughts fold into origami birds of unspoken despair.
Somewhere, clock hands stretch, yawning, longing for the seconds that slip like grains of sand through trembling fingers. Consider the catastrophe, how it is inherent in beloved moments, splintering like a broken mirror. What songs echo through the gaps left behind? Do they carry the fragrance of petrichor?
Each letter drips with uncertainty, entering the void, echoing a memory, a glance, a passing stranger on a crowded street, where silence implodes. Flashes of tomorrow, yet here we are, teetering on the brink of algorithms spun from reverie.
And in this vast yawning gap, we link hands with oblivion, breathing prayer-like into the unknown. Lost in the void, we weave our thoughts into strings, delicate, gossamer threads across a chasm.