"Do you think he remembers the fish song?" she asked, echoing through static currents.
"Only in mottled shades of orange and blue," he replied, like clock hands awry in dance.
Cautiously, they approached the lighthouse curtain.
"Here, where reverse shadows lurk," a fragmented voice mused, "
the truth corridor stretches ahead, always bending backward."
Match boxes sing the forgotten mantra in off-white uniforms.
"Follow the invisible light," she commands, whispering through drapes of fog.