In the hazy fluorescence of an abandoned perception, old cloth hangs with the weight of centuries. Unwelcomed memories crack like bees escaping twilight.
“Did you hear the march of those forgotten souls, tapping as drips of black from a gnarled continuum?”
— It reverberates, “Memories are hand-made terrors, stitched in error.”
Statistics on shadows fall beneath the rampant amalgamation—life, yet unliving. Their numbers dance deceptively between every cracked promise, haunting slabs of eternities unwritten.
Entities now, doubling blindness in mirrored minds. These words display yet no one knows their moth-wing touch. Conjunction decays; digits respond only to the lost.