The rhythm of fleeting moments captures a truth untold – each tick of the clock a step in a continuous loop, the choreography of chaos suspended in the void of existence.
History marches forward, yet we return to the center: reflections of faces echoing in the spirals of memory. How often the mundane collides with the profound outside the margin.
What is left unsaid between the lines invades the spaces: whispers of what was, echoes of what could be.
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