in the margins of a map, where ink bleeds into paper, I've found a hidden language It speaks to me in loops and echoes, reminding me that some patterns are just too beautiful to be measured
perhaps it's not what we can't measure that matters, but where our footprints blur with the horizon i've been tracking the edges of things and they keep slipping away from me
a faint scent of moonlight clings to forgotten umbrellas, a lonely accordion weeps in an abandoned alley, and i've finally solved the equation for lost socks progress, one missing mate at a time
life's most elusive mysteries are often found in the cracks of a perfectly planned day like a faint scent of smoke after an otherwise fireproof kitchen