Reverse the melody, sing backward, for in doing so, the world unravels.
Whispered secrets of asphalt and dreams, they hum through the corridors of time.
Enchanted wheels, poised, waiting—never moving forward, always returning.
In that return lies the truth, hidden in the weave of silence and sound.
"Have you seen the rim of time?" she asked, eyes glazed with the hue of forgotten songs.
Urgency dripped from her words, yet soothing like rain on tidal waves.
"The tirellis, yes, they bind us," he mused, lost in the reflection of fleeting echoes.
Reflections of Urmesh
Purchase, they say, yet what is bought cannot return in original form.
Currency sings in reverse, a requiem for the unattainable.
Lament the backward march, the tread worn not by advance, but by endless circling.
Illusionary Market
Communication crisscrosses paths unseen, a spider's web of thought and sound.
Each strand a potential story, a note played just out of reach.
Through the haze of melody, truth speaks in riddles and rhymes.
Web of Thought