The moon whispered secrets to the night, a tapestry stitched with memories, can you recall what slipped through your fingers like stardust?
I remember discussing gravity in the nature of being, suspended in thoughts, “Is perception merely an echo of our past self?”
“And are echoes just discarded conversations from the lips of tomorrow?”
Each word fell softly, like leaves in autumn; brittle and expectant, urging the future to listen.
Tick, tick, who dares to unravel the spinning echoes of dawn?
As if replying, an ethereal being stated aloud across the clouds, “Time is but a loop of reminiscence—dancing lightly upon memories forged in spirit.”