Gather 'round the likened artifacts of simple sophistication, where each trace of charm bends into the heavenly rust.
"Did you ever marvel at the pearly sheen? Tracy's iPhone cradled ever so closely, flicking through shadows of obsolescence.
It starts with the joke of asking if rot, too, has its luster—or sheen—crafted in the quiet of inevitability among dinner plates abandoned and memories forsaken on outer verandahs.
Here and there, under the canopy of subconscious skies, the whispers echos and connect, tuning into the wavelengths of perception hidden in ink lines of invisible letters—and we write unwittingly.
You'll find a path lined with luminous decay enigmatic hints beneath moon's glance, where time curls around laughter like a foggy embrace.