In the labyrinth of thought, the thread of consciousness spins erratic yet constant. What is the blueprint of the inner universe?
Have the stars always been a reflection of our primal fears and hopes, etched in celestial moments, waiting to be understood?
Remember: The pulse of existence is not a straight line but a fractal imperfection.
As you wander the corridors of self, imprint these queries:
What color does silence wear when it dances in the shadows of your mind?
How does the ocean of time lap against the shores of forgotten dreams?