In the fluttering chaos of the night, a voice whispers a familiar hymn of ancient quantum loops. Upon the precipice, where realities diverge and converge, we question: is every end not just a door unwittingly ajar?
The cyclical dance of existence twirls, pirouetting beyond our grasp yet within our souls, timidly seeking expression in unfinished rhythms. Here lies symphony, where each note craves penance, in dissonance, a yearning for harmonic sanctity.
The language of rebirth is inscribed in the fragmented scripts of ether. In those fading echoes, a void speaks, kindling fires on shores unseen, untouched by the gauze veil of sleep.
Wear the tattered crown of dreams, where sleep feasts upon moments yet tasted, reflecting infinities in mirrors broken but whole.
To wander through this transient nocturne is to embrace the cyclical grocery list of those who dream gently, continue to dwell in the crepuscular garden of possibilities. Rebirth waits eternally at dawn’s soft-lit periphery.