Once, there was a sound, profound and quietly unfurling across the expanse of silent galaxies. It was neither a melody nor a cacophony; it was a symphonic pulse of matters, echoing through the waiting spaces of eternity. Ceaselessly, it echoed.
Contemplation requires no audience — do you hear the reflection? It whispers somewhere deep, ringing notes upon notes, an echo ever persistent. The repeat holds truth, though no words are spoken, an eternal sigh wrapped in celestial questions.
When does a thought breathe its last or find new voice? The heard or the unheard whisper beneath layers of spinning stars, carving their stories upon the unmapped shores of time. Wrap your essence in this sound — listen closely, closely listen to what lies beneath the dark.
The core is a silent lighthouse, forever flickering, forever astir. Embrace the echoes of the unwritten tales and weave your essence into their narrative, where each diameter cuts through eternity’s stillness, a revolution of silence speaking of unheard truths.
As you wander this plane of abstraction, understand that every entry point is an exit and every whisper a call to deeper reflection. Carry the echo forward, a tether to the anxious pulse of existence — a truth too vast, too serene.