Time coughs. Have you ever listened to its rhythm, to those echoing twin beats that match your heartbeat? As the walls around me drip with a rust-colored echo down the temporal lane, my mind twirls in self-dialogue again.
“But isn’t the past just future waiting in disguise, Harriet?” I ask my reflection slumped on a bench, bathed in silver moonlight, or was it sun mist?
“You named yesterday before you tasted its sunrise, didn’t you?”, replies the twisty specter, her peculiarly Meluzinian braid floating like thoughts awakening.
Whistle no more to the clock, let the hollow space be your compass. It bends around green paths and silvers the puff surrounded by frosty moments.
“Fleeting boats”, she says now standing perpendicular to gravity's will, “sail through fabricated memories while time drinks up the sea.” Do you dare leap onto the mast?
The knot of sensibility loosens; I chase after the curled anchor painted azure and come across roots dripping sounds—old jazz hummus freshly synthesized, stray notes popping like stars.
Another loop. No, a circlet of light. Time scoffs, maybe pointing at vaporized mirages misdialing eternity.
“Remember? Vanilla sky when ash felt banal? And art balloons croon against the subatomic whimper?”