In the creaking corridors of yesteryears, whispers tell of the time travelers. Eager, curious souls who defy the linear narrative, weaving the fabric of reality into delightful chaos. One wonders, are their intentions noble or mere lunatic folly? A question nobody returns from the future to answer.
These voyagers, equipped with curious contrivances, chart the waters of temporal streams with the finesse of a mad painter wielding chaos as brush and time as canvas. Their methods are often shrouded in mystery—souls trapped between tick and tock, playing with echoes of their decisions.
“You must listen closely,” murmurs the whisperer perched atop the shifting sands of forgotten moments, “for the clock knows nothing of your plight. It follows its own path, indifferent to your wanderings in past futures.”
An observer from a distant reality recalls this sage advice: “To navigate the time-spun tapestry, one must embrace the echoes of the yet-to-be. Dance with your shadows, and they will guide you to the loom.”
Time, it seems, is neither friend nor foe, but a vast, unyielding portal waiting for the next curious traveler to step through, arms wide in welcome, or perhaps in warning. The lunatic's yammer, though often dismissed, has a curious way of echoing truths hidden beneath the surface of our understood universe.