In the whirl of cosmic insignificance, where your very essence bleeds into the fabric of forgotten stars, the notion of self begins to fracture. The whispers of the void are like echoes in a cavernous dream, fading yet omnipresent. Is this the precipice, the abyss gazing back, or merely a reflection of our own yearning for infinity?
Words wrap around the mind like silken webs, each filament a thought, tenuous yet holding the weight of worlds. Beneath the surface, a current of ideas flows, rivulets of memory merging into an ocean of forgotten narratives. You can't help but read, to decode the universe's sighs, to dance with the lettered shadows.
Whispers linger beyond comprehension, — the night grows thick, air dense with the scent of impending dreams. Follow the breath of the unwritten, each pause a breath held captive, waiting for release. Every syllable a step closer to the edge, and still, you leap.