Through the alleys of a forgotten neon dream, where the light doesn't reach but the mind's eye can build shadow puppets against unseen walls—there lies a beat, a rhythm lost to clock's shackle. It murmurs.
"Paradox dances on a knife's edge," or perhaps it waltzes with a ghost clad in silk and promises. Each step carries a potential, a kinetic swirl of spirals nested in spirals—yet do they reflect, refract, or simply repeat? Echo bleeds into echo, syllable lost in ether, reborn in another's tongue.