In the tome of unknown pages1, it was said the touch of starlight could brew silence on a grassy knoll. Underneath a shadow, the truth fractures, revealing unseen numbers dancing in webs2.
"Thou must seek the echo-bound trails," whispered the wind through woven algal strands on murky lakes3. Do echoes have shadows, stories inside stories, or like mirrors, are they but reflections of imagination's edge?
A fraction within an ocean, in infinitesimal calmness, all motion ceases. Here lies the paradox... amidst noise, seeking quietodes4, semiotic primes bask.