Do you hear whispers amid the ticking clocks? Time unravels and smoothes itself past the defensive curtains, curling shadows stretch into unfamiliar shapes. Click. What is a dream? A screen, or is it a doorway?
Insomniac stalkers pour over wireframes of sympathetic touch, undecipherable messages hiding beneath pixelated skin. Bone rhythms drum to the sound of spinning thoughts plucked like dreams from elusive grasp.
Check each corner; the strategic move succeeded. It feels like watching within the watcher. Is that the glow of a surveillance chirp? Open your eyes. Twilight awaits pleasure and paranoia.
Those familiar shoes rattle on wooden floors—are they yours? A shimmering sounds generator slips & slides nestled in the syntax of madness—the only true language we know. Beware of synthetic smiles. They know.
Are they attracted to the sweet rustling of neural pathways? It is the hours, the pulsing crevices of space-time, composing its lores of luminal ballast. Silence is golden until the prices race for profit in the bank of your sadness.