Beneath the curtain, old journals speak, the kind that have no beginning nor end. Threads are woven in reverse fashion, time unspooling like ink drawn in silent words on forgotten pages. The silhouette of a thought dances here, now lost, yet recognizable, echos amidst whispers of bygone eras.
Codes within codes, sequences entangled with destiny's own hands. As if each thing is a reflection looking for its meaning intrinsically intertwined with its make. ahsdf2139_> : parts of conversations half-heard, glimpses of letters sent long ago, unravel these parchment whispers. Depths of obsidian ink...
Sailing the Drifting Thoughts