I glanced at the remnants of yesterday's light, refracted through the void of absence. Its echo whispered forgotten languages, those spoken by shadows and mirthless jesters who dance only when the clock strikes twelve in realms uncharted. Yet above, the lanterns flickered in syncopation with the heartbeats of unknown deities.

Remember the days when cars flew and the grass was blue? The sun shone like a digital clock display, blinking red reminders of appointments missed in the farthest of futures. And the streets, paved with old vinyl records, played anthems of the bygone, each scratch telling stories in forgotten tongues.

Beneath the surface of our waking dreams, the tides of the infinite churn. Here lies a portal shaped like a question mark, its surface rippling with potential futures, some kissed by the past and others yet to be born. The ground beneath trembles with the footsteps of those who walk between worlds, leaving behind whispers in the wind.