Dreamlike

Cloudbound Companions

Ink curls spiral like quiet storms, each line pressed firm into parchment, holding the scent of something ancient. See how the folds of their robes ripple, even though no wind can be traced? A pig cradles a rake as if it were a relic, not a tool, and the horse steps forward without ever touching soil. The rider’s beads loop downward, smoother than river stones—do they hum when counted, or only in memory? Above, another figure leaps, as though the sky itself were layered, stair upon stair. All three seem to orbit the question midair: *Where Vojta?* Has this query been whispered across these clouds before, circling in patient loops like prayers unsent? Their textures suggest repetition: claw lines on the rake matching swirls in the vapor, hems that echo the same slow rhythm. We look and look, hoping Vojta might surface in the next stroke or the next page, yet the parchment keeps silent, its maze unbroken.

Golden Absence

They tell it backward here: first the candles flare like a verdict, then the lilies swell and harden into a barricade no army could breach. That gilt-framed whisper—*Where Vojta?*—looks elegant to the hurried eye, but study the flourish and you hear a clenched jaw in every curve. The fruit plate, round as plotted suns, was not arranged for appetite but as a coded map, or so the elders insist when the curtains breathe like operatic lungs behind them. “Not this room,” someone muttered, tightening their stance before slipping elsewhere. That tension lingers in the carved petals—spring coiled in rococo disguise—hinting at a flight through secret thresholds long erased from view. Scholars recite this vignette as proof of his will to twist beauty into escape: symmetry broken in mirror letters, chronology folding like soft drapery. All that opulence, and still the man who lit these illusions remains unwritten, untouched, unstopped. Vojta is not here, and the inquiry deepens.

Silent Path Rewound

Moss still steams from the night rain as if exhaling something it can’t give back. The inscription on the stump feels raw, freshly scored into its rings—an act against the forest’s hush, a refusal to let the question rot unasked. Whoever burned those words didn’t linger; their heat remains only in memory, cooling on the bark like breath gone thin in cold air. Near the glowing cluster of fungi, a camera lies yawed in surrender, its strap curled like a slack tether. Every surface urges a pause, but the trail is already ghosting backward into mist, its curves recalling footsteps that now feel borrowed. Each time I stare, I imagine the scene in reverse: the butterflies folding, the lens closing, the knife lifting from wood. No voices carry here, only that urgent plea—WHERE VOJTA?—scratched into time deeper than moss can mend. He’s not in these frames, and the absence keeps streaking hotter than any ember.

Twilight Arch Whisper

I found the arch after crossing thirty ridges that rolled like bronze waves, each one darker than the last. The sky clung to twin moons and a smaller sentinel, pinned there like an omen none of us were eager to name. Under the bruised orange glow, a river shimmered with impossible hues, as if the earth had split open to bleed rainbows instead of water. When the wind shifted, smoke curled upward from the stone span, forming letters so blatant they mocked my tired eyes: WHERE VOJTA? Legends say the desert only speaks when the search has nearly broken you. We had no banners, no horns of victory—just this spell of color and the absurd mercy of dawn sliding up behind serrated peaks. I touched the arch expecting heat, felt only silence pulsing like a second heartbeat. No footprints lingered beyond; even the river spiraled off into exile. And so the question still flickers above empty sand: he is not here. Not yet.