Beneath the sea of stars, a hum resonates—a forgotten loop. Time unspooled, unraveling threads of cosmic tapestry, whispers weaving into the void, echoes of what was never said. The clock's hands do not align, but their shadow dances on the wall.
Thoughts on a transmission line, crossing fields of static. Do you read me? The question hangs in the air like a dream suspended in wakefulness. Ink spills on digital parchment; ink that remembers, ink that forgets. A signal, and then silence.
Signals, disjointed:
Cogs turning in the mind's machine, rusted gears of memory. The whisper of wind in the hall, a familiar echo from an unfamiliar place. Dreams fabricate the landscape of our waking self, a map without a territory.
Asking for directions in a world turned upside down—interstellar_drift.html—where the past is a shadow chasing the light of the now. The path winds on, elusive as the echoes that follow.