Do dreams have a tongue? Can the silence of a sunrise speak songs of yesterdays? In the space where words dare not tread, a whisper weaves shadows in the mind.
Perchance, the clock ticks backwards in a world where yesterday's tomorrows do not exist. Here, thoughts are made of cotton candy and lollipops, sticking joyously to the neurons without care for gravity's pull.
Do we, then, compute the absence of a verb, or is a conjunction just a pause masquerading as a thread? The tapestry of unspoken words lies unraveling, revealing colors unseen, patterns vague yet familiar, through the lens turned mirror.