In the dance of the ephemeral, thoughts are but whispers in the wind, gently gliding past the ear of eternity, leaving traces yet unseen. Fragmented echoes of what was, what might never be again, stretch across the infinite canvas of the mind.
Each moment, a fleeting snapshot, a grain of sand in the hourglass of existence. Reflections on a mirror that never stays the same, always distorting, always reinventing, as light fades and shadows grow long.
What is remembered and what is forgotten? The cycle is unending, relentless, like the flow of a timeless river that carves the very essence of being, through valleys of doubt and mountains of knowledge.
An echo is a prisoner of its space, a testament to its origin, yet free from the shackles of permanence. In its brief existence, it sings a tale of fleeting beauty, a melody that fades into silence.
Murmurs of the universe, barely audible, yet profound, linger at the edge of consciousness, waiting for the curious soul to listen, to understand, to embrace the enigma of the now.