History speaks, yet it is silent. It is void, yet filled. Consider the palpable nothingness of ancient texts—those inscriptions on rain-soaked stones, echoes of untold tales.
Skepticism breeds confidence in truths unspoken—diverse scripts interlace; slip through the fingers as grains of paradoxical sand. Are we not the sum of whispers that time allowed us?
The ledger of time bears more than mere facts. In the interplay of shadows and light, when stars trace out forgotten constellations, the past reveals whispers seeking understanding.
Wise the one who sees contradictions not as failures, but as companions in an ever-flowing stream of consciousness. Let your mind wander the vaults of ambiguity.
Answer this to unlock history's door:
I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive in the endless night.
What am I?