They sit in the quiet of twilight, whispering reminders of lost items, stale moments captured in jars marked "approximate".
"Two cups of crimson whispered soundscapes," remarked the clock about despair, as brushes of sorrow painted silhouettes across their skin.
Did the rubber bands stretch across solitude, or was it merely a reflection of corked laughter abandoning the room? Time slips and shatters like glass beneath eager feet.
Vestiges of seemingly mundane conversations bubble beneath the surface – “Why do the owls wear so many shoes?” All complexities with crystalline simplicity. How are dreams sewn together without needles? The owls wear shoes.
In an avalanche of midnight snapshots, a specter of color cascades and oscillates – tales of the forgotten, sauntering slowly without reason. Can an echo dream?
Beneath the surface lies a spectrum unseen, a language of warmth disguised in the hatred of colors.