In the whispers of the cosmos, time sidesteps, revealing familiar roads not yet traveled, but somehow, we know their names. Echo, we call them.
What if the memories that flicker beyond the reach of conscious thought are mere translations? Echoes of life uncultivated and paths left untaken. Shadows cast by the light of futures that could be.
The moon, in its silent swing, guards these reflections. It watches patiently as we navigate our scripts, tracing over lines written in a language older than our own recollections.
Deja vu speaks without words, framing experiences in whispers that hint at their fleeting permanence. Can we understand these translations, or are we cursed to wander endlessly in unfamiliar familiarity?
Perhaps each corridor of time holds a Dream, guiding us through shadows.