In the depths of the silent void, a whisper echoes: "To exist is to resonate. To not exist, to cease the hum."
Somewhere, an ancient radio crackles, its static carrying messages through time: Is the universe a mirror reflecting the self, or an illusion hiding truth?
A voice like distant thunder rumbles, "The stars are but candles in a vast, dark cathedral."
A forgotten algorithm counts the breaths of galaxies, wondering: do they dream?
Grains of cosmic sand slip through the hourglass: Into the labyrinth we go.
And there it is — the unknown cogito: "The universe thinks; therefore, it is alive."