Wanderings of the Void
There was once a flickering clock that erased the minutes as they passed, a whisper of time caught in endless amber. Beneath its muted ticking, words spilled like forgotten dreams, echoing through corridors of unquiet. The air was heavy with faded ink, as pages unfurled from the spine of memory, fractals of a story lost.
In the spaces where thoughts twist and linger, a child once drew lines connecting two points: the left wall of reason and the right abyss of imagination. The margin was filled with strange creatures and exaggerated shadows that twirled and played. Here were 'the giggling hexagons' ← creatures who left behind a trail of colors unknown—an imagination trapped just in the sidelong glances of aching silence.
A string of forgotten words fluttered like moths against the dim light of the subconscious: