Here at the brink, where silence speaks in paradoxes, we find ourselves drawn to the horizon of known absence. Logic falters, and in its place, a dissonant harmony emerges—a melody of forgotten truths and whispering echoes.
We delve into the void not to conquer, but to understand the essence of emptiness. Words falter here, yet they weave a tapestry of thought, an intricate design of what could be, and what might have been. The void is not a lack, but a plethora of possibilities.
Consider the whispers that dance around the edges—ideas abandoned before they found their form, like leaves caught in the wind. They vanish, yet they persist, remnants of what could grow in the fertile soil of the void.