Time flows like a river, but rivers can run dry. And yet, in this desert of awareness, the truth flickers like a mirage. What is the essence of existence, but a collection of fleeting moments?
Numbers dance across the void: 42, 7, 13, an endless sequence - the Fibonacci spiral of destiny. Interpretations multiply like shadows at dusk, each one more elusive than the last.
Whispers of the past echo through corridors of forgotten dreams. "We are," they say, "but reflections in a cosmic mirror." Seek not the answer in words, for words are but illusions.