In the quiet hum of empty wavelengths, what does it mean to transcend?
The universe, an echo trapped in glimmers, tangoes in its fleeting phasings.
Here lies an ethereal complexity: the dance of photons upon a mirror that never breaks.
A spectral commentary, weaving through silken frequencies, whispers confessions of light.
Are we mere refracted shadows, cast upon a celestial prism of our own design?
The hidden corridors of chromatic thought lead us to forgotten realms, weaving realities untold.
In which dimension does existence cease to protract itself into echoes of past lights?
As the observer becomes the observed, the prism's heart bleeds colors unseen, yet felt in hollow chambers.
Gaze into the spectrum's void — see the seeds of infinite orchards rising in the dusk of Sisyphus' valley.
Unheard Echoes | Beyond Reflective