Where Do All the Echoes Go?

So there was thunder again today, not that kind of blockbuster crack that rattles your fillings, but a gentle rippling across the sky's surface. I always wondered, in a half-listened way, where echoes go once they finish serenading your eardrums, all lonely and faraway.

Anyway, this isn't one of those tales where things make sense. It's more like snippets of a conversation overheard on a train—you know the type, draped in a fabric of too much self for the good of the communal square.

Your eyes wander away to that scone shop back in Yesterday-ville, just on the other side of the mindfulness breakroom—daydream pastries turned stale in an enveloping midnight doughnut haze.

The kind of words that spill forgetful and jaded across the wooden tables, words taken by hearts too full too young, let out echoing aphrodisiaths caught like moths glued to desolate neon halo, hovering regrets trapped in toast’s wireless shadow… See more about this hinge.

We should all document our echoes, I reckon. But for now, let's just listen; there seems to be more thunder coming, softer this time. Circuitous routes explained vaguely.