Gliding through the corridors of quiet thought, each moment a room unlocked only by words. Standing at mirrors,look deeper, searching not for destinations, but shadows of tide.
Once, the path forward merged lines of sand, each grain nothing, each imprint interwoven intentionlessness. Are we echoes in forgotten caverns or waves meeting horizon overlapping horizon?
The flux of consciousness ebbs not with meanings, but with a dance of footfalls casting spells—footprints leading nowhere, asking no question. Again, what was motion, a transient breath between being? Could stillness speak a different kind of truth?