In the dawn of reflection, where shadows converse with ancient light, the soul wanders, seeking whispers from forgotten realms. I stood before the obsidian mirror, expecting echoes of what was lost, only to find an infinite depth of what could have been.
Therein lies the paradox of time — a continuum not bound by the linear shackles of days, but by the depths of understanding itself. The mirror doesn’t simply reflect, it contemplates.
If dreams are the whispers of the soul through sleep, what then is the vision of wakefulness? An interstice between the tangible and the imagined, where thought becomes the architect of wonder.
Remember: "Through every passage not taken, the heartbeating silence of choices untangled throbs."