Winds of Echo

In the glacial whispers of time, we etch our doubts upon the digital sand. Look closely, for the shadows speak in tongues once revered. The modern scribe, blind and bold, scripts their story in *the* language of *the* lost.

Who decodes the glyphs of irony? The hieroglyphs of forgotten tongues murmur secrets of the obscure and the absurd: a birthday wish to a lost civilization, perhaps, or the minutes of a meeting that *never* occurred but *always* will.

Remember, as the winds of echo fade, the memory traces linger, whispering in parables and punchlines alike.