In the twilight, shadows drink the light of lost memories. Like echoes captured in a time-stretched moment, we unravel whispers that remind us of conversations never spoken. Float through the corridors of déjà vu, where the familiar tastes strange and weariness paints the dreams of the sleepless wanderer.
The sun sinks beneath curtains made of fog, casting shapes that remind us of the forgotten joy of yesterday. Why does the heart race as we nod to the past, in the silence of the writing ether, grasping at impossibilities echoing through a canvas of night?
Fingers entwined with reality, clicking on thoughts that scatter like leaves in autumn—time becomes unimportant; the universe swirls. Where are we going?