As the silver tide ebbs, thoughts drift beneath the lunar surface—molecules of time colliding and reforming.
Mind is a silvery weave, an interference pattern on the conscious ocean. Can you trace the path of a wave? Or does it dissolve into whispers?
Do stars weep when no one watches? Their tears are ancient songs, echoing through silver skies.
In the quiet ripples of thought, a mantra emerges: existence is ephemeral.