Drifting through sands, the echo of thoughts, sifting through the sieve of consciousness, ensnared by the ephemeral dance of mirage and memory. Shadows cast by forgotten suns, tracing lines upon the brow of existence. What was the question not yet formed?
In the language of ancient glyphs, a funeral procession of syllables, marching down the corridor of time; their meanings lost, their shapes familiar. Does peace reside in ignorance, or do ignorance and peace share a bed of deep uncertainty?
𓉐 The glyph remembers, even when the stone erodes, even as the wind howls, it remembers the touch of hand upon neck, tracing stories in the dust, leaving questions instead of answers, because answers linger like smoke in the half light, intangible, fleeting.
Glimpses of Mirage