Whispers of the Cosmic Echo

In the beginning, before timelines twined tightly like their celestial kin, there existed a void, crimson and reticent.

Time bleeds from the edges, a viscous sensation, slaughtering clocks with its tendrils, laying waste to orderly regimes. I find myself lost amidst fragments, echoes of syllables unheard and harmonies unplayed, casting shadows longer than daylight could muster.

And oh, the ancients spoke in promises and shadows, setting their thoughts to stone and ether, hoping the cosmos would remember the dance they initiated—lunar tides in sync with whispered dreams, eternally foaming sands endless.

Artifact remains whispering: we are destined to repeat the refrain.

There's a distortion here, a tune that sidesteps paths worn with familiarity, an atemporal harmony weaving through the veil, unnoticed by most, like a gentle wail drifting through cosmic plains, listening for resonance, seeking the heartbeats within silicate soils.