Can the unnoticed trace of time be defined?
Between the ticking of fleeting moments, an omniscient whisper resides, echoing the unsaid truths. Each second leaves a mark, yet so subliminal that the universe itself overlooks its own traces.
Imagine, if you will, a being outside the confines of time. It watches, marking the rhythm of the cosmos, counting not in seconds, but in infinitesimal eons. What would its reflections reveal?
A cycle? A spiral? Maybe a dance of infinite complexity, beyond the grasp of chronological thought.
In dreams, we touch the edges of this truth. Where past and future bleed into a now that feels eternal yet transient. Are we echoes of an origin, or shadows cast by a light unseen?