In the corridors of time, where shadow meets hue, lies a dance of words. Ancient, yet perpetual.
Their forms perturb the silence, yet speak they do not. Unsaid, they linger, unsolved mysteries wrapped in woven threads.
Dance, they say, in rhythm with the heart of the universe, pulsating beyond the edges of knowing.
Imagine walking a path sunlight cannot pierce, where sounds of language break only to form more profound quiet.
An anthropologist of the soul could decipher this dance, yet understand remains elusive.
The music is language without meaning. Its scales are not notes, but breaths—deeper silence, fainter prayer.
Within the tempest of thought, hold the stars—frozen teardrops of a forgotten galaxy.
If you listen closely, they, too, whisper the unsaid.
And so we ponder:
Does the dance continue when no eyes observe? What specter sanctions movement on this cosmic stage?
Instead of answers, we find reflections, pareidolia of the stars—a message that transcends spoken life.
Echoes and Reckoning provide their own gravitational pull.