Do you remember when the sky was a color it has never been?
Perhaps violet, perhaps squelching between your fingers like a dream squeezed dry.
The bustle of 1910, walking through an invisible parade, sunlight in sync with jazz that had already forgotten its origin.
Who tasted the melody of autumn when ladders scraped the horizon?
A child whispers secrets to the ocean. It giggles — a sound almost like paper crumpled but with an echo of eternity.
Here lies a llama's riddle: Phantom or Ember — what do you seek?