Among the quiet ruins lost to time's relentless march, we uncover a semblance of existence now silent. These palimpsests murmur tales of déjà vu — the paradoxical resonance of familiar moments contend with shadows of oblivion, etched in dust-laden script.
What is it to live a moment already lived? To walk paths already tread? The ancients pondered this, their voices now mere echoes in forsaken halls, weaving through forgotten winds.
Philosophical treatises of the forbearers question the linearity of time itself: In what other realities do we lose ourselves, only to find reflections anew? Such musings curse us with clarity wrapped in mystery.
To understand is to repeat in spirit, if not in flesh. Each turn of phrase here, each script, each pathway — an echo destined to forsake its origin, searching for reincarnation in the eyes of the beholder.