Time drifts like a solitary feather in an empty hall, ridden with stillness yet permeated with whispers. It bends, stitching moments like an old quilt, every patch holds a heartbeat, a quiver that echoes in the labyrinth of memory.
Each tick raises shadows upon the walls of perception. As light filters through stained vessels of silence, we parse the minutes like flecks of gold glimmering in unfathomable depths, reminding us of fleeting laughter, the sigh of a closed door, dusk creeping over the horizon.
Do we touch time or does it touch us? The empty clock spins its whims as we miner through fragments, a kaleidoscope of yesterday tickling the barrels of our futures.
Shall we linger beyond the cusp? Let's measure not in the linear pauses but in the alyssum of breath, each intake a drift through the cosmic tapestry unraveling. The question remains with a single heartbeat of a promise: will you dance in this embrace, ensnared by the folds of seconds whispering destiny?
The smell of faded pages waltzes along memory’s edge, where do they lead? To an echo or a intersection, valleys undiscovered?
Feel the rhythm of reality dissolve, let moments intermingle.