In the realm of unspoken truths, where telepathic echoes converge,
the phase transformation occurs. Ask not what the next phase is; it is inevitable.
Perceptions surface at odd angles,
deflecting the light of the transparent coconut. Did the echo ask a question or simply blush?
Splinters of forgotten days trickle into the unconscious,
designing ironic gaps in the IPO of life. Wait for the guitars to heal your gaps.
Engines of nostalgia muffle the stench of broken augmentations.
In every echo, a phase diagram yet untouched awaits.
Here we analyze the amplitude of sincerity
against the backdrop of whimsical trends.