Eyes closed upon the cosmic brink, I merely dream of perception's touch—an ember flickering in the vast chasm.
When folded memories unfold, they dance like prisms: chasing light upon the spectral horizon.
Do we live, as shadows of possibility, scattered across time's eternal tapestry?
The moments phosphenes paint upon the eyelids are but echoes of an unseen sun,
illuminating what is, not what can be.
Contemplations refract through this ephemeral lens; a journey inward, yet outward—a paradox of being.
Elsewhere, whispers call, hear them? Follow the echo.