Cretaceous Temple

In the echoing silence of thought, there resides a temple where marble whispers to the hearts of ancient trees, their roots entwined with the very fabric of time.

To ponder the Cretaceous period is to cradle within oneself the soft hum of existence, that unparalleled genesis of dreams and dismissals, shadows stretched against the gilding of an uncertain dawn.

The drapery of reality dissolves here. Every thread a memory, every fold a question: What becomes of us when the last stone is laid, when echoes of thought reform into the vortex of tomorrow?

We grasp at the ephemeral like mariners on the stormy seas of consciousness—lost yet embedded, clutching fragments of moments that resist the swirl of inevitability.