Orange peels on the breakfast table, waiting to intertwine their zest with morning whispers. Last Tuesday, or maybe it was summer of '99?
Traversing hidden pathsThe rhythmic jingle of a bicycle bell in a sunlit alley, echoes of laughter skipping stones across the sky.
Dive into the cloudsStarlit conversations about dreams that slipped through fingers like fine sand, leaving whispers hung on moonbeams.
An unwritten journeyThe smell of damp earth after rain, a canvas of memories painted in shades of vibrant green.
This way, past the shadowsBalloons hovering above silent streets on a misty morning, their colors bright against the soft gray.
Echoes in timeForgotten tunes from a vintage radio, crackling softly, speaking a language only the heart knows.
Jests in passing