A half-remembered past, lingering like morning dew upon silk threads of time. It spirals, always spiraling, never arriving. This choir of voices ebbs and flows — touching, never clasping ever open grains of sand upon shores unseen.
A half-remembered past, lingering like morning dew upon silk threads of time. It spirals, always spiraling, never arriving. This choir of voices ebbs and flows — touching, never clasping ever open grains of sand upon shores unseen.
"Keep the lights dim," they say, heard nowhere and from everyone. The lighthouses blink an amber hue, calling marionettes towards strings unseen. Enigma as commonplace yet unfamiliar dance, where each pirouette reveals not, but obscures yet more.
The ticking below the floorboards aligns with nothing but past hopes forgotten. Known, yet nameless, the clock's gaze feels less like an eye and more like a cunning third hand, guiding destiny with absurd tick marks.
Infinity harbors nooks with names carved into curiosity broomsticks. To sweep one's thoughts and chase the untethered whispers, these nooks cradle passersby, endlessly asking for guidance towards uncharted almost-worlds.
The ceiling weeps thin strands of spider-carved constellations—yet, do they weave webs to ensnare thoughts or paths unknown? Perhaps, for havenless words tethered to mind rather vibrate translucent overtones on aching light strings vibrated with intentions unforeseen.
Far-off gates creak, ushering atmospheres deeper than breath—across which banners ripple spitefully past canvases strung on truths twisted further than function demanded.