In the grand concert hall of existence, they say the poignant symphony never ends—a serenade for mindless millions. Broken records playing forever, an ironically endless remix of moments missed.
Throughout these harmonic labyrinths, whispers of yesterday continue their pilgrimage, seeking closure with none to grant.
The maestro, invisible yet all-powerful, conducts this absurd drama: an opus too grand, too awkward, too serious—to laugh, or to cry?
Further reads illuminate this echoic abyss: fragile messages written on tissue-thin memories.
And amidst this cosmic folly, one continuous applause: it's the sound of empty dreams landing softly on vanished stars.