You find yourself tracing contours that don't exist, your fingers sliding over unseen geometries
defining themselves amongst shadows scattered by the echoes of memories.
These are the spaces where time whispers gently, looping around like a ribbon unfurling in breeze,
inscribing stories in droplets of dew on the syntax of dreams.
They speak in riddles, these curves: a dialect of spirals and arcs.
Each bend a verse, delicately doodled in the margins of cosmic parchment,
a conversation forever astray yet inherently whole.
Align your vision with the oblique—a spectrum unseen by the linear latter-lives.
Inquire within the breadth of this curvature,
for here lies the abstracted pulse of existence cradled by the infinity's caress.