Among the shadows of each second lie forgotten glimpses, jarring against the backdrop of routine. Steam rises from the slanted cracks of tomorrow, flickering like an offbeat metronome. Lost in fractal reveries...
Voice of an echo mingles with the scent of aging maps. Can you hear the pigeons talking about their dreams? Intrigued, they flap, they flap, like restless whispers of silk. Perhaps we'll transcend?
The sun reflects tears on tarnished metal. Who painted the sound of this night? Here lies the remembrance of a blue banana split that sprouted political debates. Reality bends...