Gilt-edged meanderings decant the sediment of diurnal isolation as autumn falls.
'Today I am one, tomorrow I shall splinter again. And thus everything in the world decants and modulates.' - Vladimir Nabokov, The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov
The secrets in your pockets have fallen on the ground I gathered up enough to recover every sound I'm not afraid to keep them and move while holding on Whatever you are saying I'm hearing as a song I've learned to know the music with every sense I have Return to you the silence the rest you needed back
