In the echoes of silence, where the universe holds its breath, I find a symphony played not upon instruments, but within the quiet chambers of the mind. Each note, a thought suspended in amber, timeless and delicate, waiting to be released, yet content to remain frozen in the ether.
These melodies of the void, they do not sing of stars nor of worlds, but of absence—an absence that is not empty, but full of potential. What crescendos lie dormant in this calm? What harmonies await to be interwoven with the threads of existence? I ponder, as the symphony plays on, unheard by any but the soul's most intimate audience.
Do these echoes remember who they were before the silence, or do they, like me, forget and remember anew? I chase the fading notes, a journey without destination, through realms untouched by time.
The void speaks in whispers, and I listen, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unseen tapestry it weaves. In its symphony, I find solace—a reminder that even absence is a kind of presence, a prelude to a symphony yet to be written.
Eternal Dreaming