Thoughts slip like grains through fingers, each moment a paradox, quiet yet loud in its unspoken essence. I sit, suspended in time, feeling the clock's whispers against my soul.
Here, where shadows play on faded walls vividness is a fleeting dream—a mere hum in the background.
Am I not, an echo of echoes, each silence pregnant with the next utterance, each breath a cycle? The moment, a paradox suspended in perpetual motion. Can one capture time within the palm of a hand, or does it seep, intangible as vapor?
These are the questions, ephemeral, fleeting, like smoke that lingers and then is not.