Beyond the curtain of reality's fabric lies an interstice: a sanctuary for thoughts long unfurled.
Here, the barely visible theories drift like autumn leaves caught in languid eddies.
Might there be cosmos entwined within our own, echoing through pathways of imaginary time,
their whispers—with intentions unvoiced—speak of dreams that transcended birth and decay?
Like echoes in a forgotten hall where the chandeliers have faintly rusted,
the strands of once-vivid theories entwine and dance with ethereal grace.