Ripples of reality shift under the surface of what we call now. As I perch on the bank of the ever-flowing river of existence, memories entwine with fantasies as they tumble over unseen rocks.
In the tiny hamlet of Buckley, the air is crisp and filled with the scent of woodsmoke and secrecy. Appearing one misty morning like a vision, a cloaked figure dazzles marketgoers with curious contraptions—healing shards of glass that bend light into colors both vivid and alien.
Alternating between din and silence, the metropolis thrives both above and below the earth. Hovering vehicles zip past in erratic choreography. Below, in the forgotten subway tunnels, children play amidst forgotten technology, using relics as toys in a world that spins faster than understanding.
A peculiar sound disturbs the stillness of the Shropshire hills—an unintelligible hum shifts the very fabric of evening. Villagers gather, eyes wide, as a brilliant sphere looms above, pulsating strangely. Tales of the 'woodlander glow' become legend amongst those who next see winter’s breath as an echo, not a shiver.
Pulsating with rhythmically altered present, distant hearts beat in synchronicity yet out of reach. Networks vibrate in cosmic dance; slight bends in time government constellations of unfamiliar patterns. Clocks hold no dominion here, they merely mark the passage of a collective uncertainty craving connection.
What is the tether that holds these moments together? Perhaps your hands are destined to trace their line, through either destruction or creation.
Cross paths with forgotten echoes here or explore forgotten futures over there.