Like wading through the fog of familiar streets, each corner turned is an echo of the past. Cities built of
murmurs and whispers, where what once was divides into tranquil monsters of thought. As one passes through these corridors, the weight of existence teeters, lingering on the edge of sensation.
A childhood toy is seated in the glow of retro screens—what was once a benign artifact now pulsates with energy, redefining memories into scripts never penned.
Shadows blink in the periphery of reason; are they remnants of a temporal fracture?
It is said the universe holds layers beyond vision; beyond what is palatable but never unjust. Days transpire in views—not always lost but resampled as distant whispers that ensnare the curious observer.
Are we watching our own reflections?