In the labyrinth of ticking gears and dancing hands, lies the artifice of our perception—time. It spreads like an ink blot, interlocking with the whims of a clockwork mind, chasing the horizon of understanding. Does certification simplify the complex web, or does it entangle us deeper in illusion?
Consider the certificates bestowed upon the hours, the accolades of the minutes, all etched in fragile, translucent paper, admired but ungraspable. Would a prisoner of time desire freedom from its relentless embrace, or would he instead whisper secrets to its stillness?
To be certified as wise, as benevolent, as anything—yet remains the question of authenticity. Are the marks and insignias of truth merely archaic hieroglyphs scrawled upon the canvas of ennui? Navigate, if you dare, to the journey of destiny.html, where paths converge and diverge.