In the library of shadows, where the books are pages of fading ink, thoughts wander aimlessly, seeking meaning in the obscure. A whisper echoes down the aisle, lingering in the air like the scent of an unspoken dream. Philosophers pause, their minds a corridor of doors opening into nothingness.
To ponder is to walk a path without a destination. The mind trails off into the dark, where questions bloom like phantom flowers in the garden of the soul. What is reality but a mirror reflecting the void? What is consciousness if not a canvas painted with the colors of oblivion?
As the heart beats, the rhythm becomes a dance of shadows, an enigmatic ballet of existence choreographed by the hands of time. In the distance, a bell tolls, marking the hour of reflection.
To be clueless is to be free, untethered to the chains of certainty, drifting like a leaf on a river of thoughts. Embrace the cluelessness and let the philosophy of silence speak its unuttered words.