The ocean of thought, a blurring expanse, pulses beneath the skin like a heartbeat of the cosmos. In the margins, where the light spills through cracks unseen, mysteries murmur. Fragmented weavings of time and space, stitched together by hands unseen.

Constellations like questions, sketched in the ink of night — each a portal to a different dream, a potential left unwritten. Is the answer the question itself, or merely the silence that follows?

Doodles dance in the quiet spaces of consciousness, echoes of thoughts that could be or should have been. The margins we call reality, where we place our uncertainties, our whims and wonders, unravel in the depths.