(BEGINS)

The fox turned into a rose. I wake up. The city hums with the excitement of a Friday evening, but in the condo, time stops. I sit by the window, watching the sun fall below the horizon. The sky is ablaze with purple and orange. It begins. "13M," one voice says quietly, fading off into the air. "23:59... Nearly there," another voice adds, softly giggling. The second before midnight, the sector is holding its breath. "00:01," he mutters, chuckling. "The brand new dawn." Red rose, passion. Love, for a while. Where is my notebook, and what else did I forget to buy? Fuck."Symbols," utters a different voice, and he nods numbly, brushing the idea aside. “The tamed fox, known as Little Prince... no, that’s not right.. No! Be persistent.” The voices blend, mingle, and curl around one another like tendrils of smoke. He closes his eyes and thinks of sunset blue—a calm painting painted by the evening palms. The faint echo of laughter glides through the air, brushing on his mind. Feather light moments, he murmurs, easy to miss. WHO. IS. HE?

I need more time, more people around me. "You do?"

I grip the black silk scarf around my neck, hearing a familiar scent. The thing is an enigma. 2ouefh 92ejm, hp98h fp 9183f9 h. My hands twitch, and the scent intensifies. Calm. Connect. I smile as the tranquilly washes over me. Every stride, every footprint in the sand, has a tale. "Haha you're so silly" he laughs. Who is he? "Future." The worn map leads me down life's meandering paths. "Maps lie," one voice says, "but not this one." Every other voice reminded me that the tamed fox taught to be persistent. The fox knows. Trust it? No-trust. "Foxes... Roses," he says softly, "echoes... laughter" I reply. In my day, they knew their place. Memories swirl, confused and ephemeral. Sunset blue fades to nighttime, and footprints disappear. "Footprints... Footprints inside the sand," he says, nearly humming. “Do you remember me? Look at my hands, my chest, my hair, into my eyes. Wht do you see? Hahahahaha. Stop.” It’s not him."Favourite tale?" he asks himself or someone else. "Le Petit Prince," of course. Answers with simplicity. “A pink rose is like a tamed fox,” I said. Wait, I heard him before. Do I know him? "Fortune cookie," he giggles, "be proper... "What was your question?" He stops, trying to remember the notion, but it slips away.

"Joy in laughter," a voice murmurs. Temporal reflection. Every code, every secret, is part of his story. "Thank you," he expresses to the air, the sounds, and himself. "I have internal voices. Even though you're not real," he giggles, "my creativity." He is me. The town is lively outside, but inside my flat, the voices keep me company. They create a tapestry of memories, dreams, and random thoughts. The codes, secrets, and tactics are scattered parts of my existence, pieces of a puzzle that can never be healthy when put together. He says, "13M," once more, keeping his eyes closed. "23:fifty nine, zero one. Scarlet rose. Calmed fox. Light feathers. For a While." He lets forth a soft, gentle chuckle. "Footprints within the sand, tired map... Sundown blue." The voices fade, becoming part of the town's historical hum. And I wait for the next spoken conversation to start, contentedly lost in the tumult of my own thoughts.

Then I go to sleep.

(A, B, C) Maksim Morozov