In the silent hour of twilight, the stream of wisdom flows. Its waters, a mirror to the cosmos, shimmer with echoes of thoughts suspended like fireflies in a jar, each flicker a moment of clarity.
Do you remember that summer, when the air was thick with possibility? We stood by the banks, dipping our toes into the cool depths, pondering the origins of our laughter, wondering if it would roll downstream, a story untold yet always known.
Time is but a ripple; we are but grains in its ceaseless movement. Yet here, in this moment, we find ourselves whole, the universe contained in a speck of stardust, the wisdom of ages resting upon our hearts like a long-forgotten melody.
What if the stream could speak? Would it whisper secrets of future selves, shadows of paths not taken? Or would it simply hum, content in its journey, indifferent to the shores it caresses?
We leave our footprints in the sand, momentary imprints of existence. But the stream flows on, cleansing, renewing, a testament to the eternal dance of creation and erasure.