Threads of Surreality

The ground wasn’t ground at all, but a soft sigh underfoot, like walking on the memory of something that never was. Clocks dangled from invisible threads, dripping molten minutes into puddles of time that rippled away before you could step in them. Dreams hung in the air, thick as fog, but they didn’t belong to anyone; they just floated, breathing backwards into themselves, folding and unfolding like forgotten thoughts. People blinked in and out, not walking but shifting, like shadows trying to remember what light felt like. And the sky—if you could call it that—curved inward, a reflection of something that was always just beyond the corner of your eye, where nothing made sense and everything was perfectly normal.