A lone star blinked above, not in recognition, perhaps in confusion,
as if caught in the web of now. How many steps back must one take to align
with the flicker? Echoes without sound, shadows without source, tracing arcs
in the void. Such is the dance of the celestial, a ballet on invisible strings.
The mind wanders, yes, but where? Past the horizon of dreams where dreams themselves
weave fabric too intricate to grasp. Threads unravel in parallel, spirals diverging into
emptiness. Is it solace or chaos found among the constellations?
"I see..." she whispered, voice carried by a gust that smelled of yesterdays,
ripe with unsaid words. Footprints in the sand, each a memory unremembered, leading to
the edge of a world that never was. Do we follow, or do we stay, echoes trapped
in breathless anticipation?
Time's river bends, flows back upon itself, and in its eddies we find solace.
Patterns repeating, never identical yet utterly familiar. What is memory but a
constellation of experiences, flickering in and out of focus, recoiling from the touch?