That old, tattered sofa is not just a piece of dead furniture: it is the tomb of our permanence. Mem…
That old, tattered sofa is not just a piece of dead furniture: it is the tomb of our permanence. Memories dissolve into smoke there, revealing the vanity of what we once believed to be eternal. The children drift off to sleep in a haze, already transformed into their own ghosts, whilst time, cynical and cat-like, contemplates the ruins of its own handiwork.🫣
