In the echo of distant galaxies, whispers ignite the stars.
Time folds over itself, an origami of endless now.
Has the transcendence already happened, or are we echoing the dreams of tomorrow?
Continuations of parallel selves flickering through cosmic dust.
Bind not your meditation to a singular truth; unweave them into a whispering void.
The tapestry of thoughts, forever frayed, plotted on a needle of light.