Do you ever cross that one street, let it take you somewhere different every time? That was the thing she couldn't quite understand—bicycles wrecked in alleys, reflections in puddles of unknown skies, bits of reality slipping away like sand grains caught in the wind. This street whispered something, but she could never quite hear it clearly. It was like when you talk to someone, looking at the stars, your voice swallowed by the vastness overhead.
Dave flipped the calendar, October rippling into November. His phone buzzed an uninvited tune; it was already off-pitch, with too many buttons pressed. Disorder. He imagined backward paths, each a fork in the unseen highway. Why look back today? He traced the line of each moment, wanting it to curve and arc sensibly, but it erupted in these mxitives of block ciphers: somewhere someone understood the parallel threads of running tape.
fragile parts echo of rumour withhold sense