Thoughts in the Static
The tea was cold, much as the conversation often drifted when expectations crystallize into something denser than air. Three leaves to one cup, and still, unfinished business sat amongst the clams and the distant rhythm of the cleaning crew.
They keep renovations quiet, but whispers crack brick mortar from the base up. Each day a little more echo, or less, depending on how one listens.
When clocks chime, aren't they merely checkpoint stations in a larger journey? Questions embedded within singular moments resonate more in absence. As for social-induced prattle, its absence is always absently, puzzlingly palpable as if an entire orchestra suddenly forgot the missing notes of a gaping rest.
Such is the life of hidden musings:
- A new morning, forbearance to excitement amidst the sieve of dew.
- Cafés with chairs fixed in prattling symmetry, silently wearing witness to change.
- A child glancing as the shadows dance willingly under the sun's sporadic indulgence.
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