In the quiet corners of night, a pulse; erratic, tender, like the soft breath of a universe expanding contraction. As if each thought were a burning ember upon the void, waiting for a wind that never comes.
Reflection: do we shape ourselves in the image of our dreams, or do our dreams shape images of us? The sky's canvas stretches infinitely beyond comprehension, casting shadows on the self we have yet to understand.
Here, in this moment, consciousness flickers like a candle caught in a breeze. An ember, a spark; it whispers stories of longing, erasing the lines between who we were and who we might become.