In the tapestry of time, threads unravel, weaving a narrative not intended. Silken strands whisper secrets to the void, their purpose lost in spaces unseen.
The footprints, remnants of a dance, trace circles upon the sand. Cyclical marks, yet linear in illusion, lead eyes to horizons unfulfilled. Each step, a paradox of progress.
A parchment lies open, ink bleeding into the fabric of reality, etching words that speak not. "To be" and "not to be," the questions hang like a mournful echo in the chasm of understanding.
The lantern flickers in silence.
Silhouette formations in the dusk's embrace, shadows of things never materialized. They stretch across the ether, poised in an eternal wait for a dawn that never rises.
A lullaby hums through the fractures.
Entropy's fingers caress the cosmos, a gentle decay of stars and ideas alike. Chaotic symphonies play in the unseen orchestra, a requiem for the lost and the yet-to-be.
The whispers weave stories untold.
In the swirling murk, a truth resides: all roads are both beginnings and ends. The footprints settle into the earth, only to be forgotten, only to begin again.