The echo is a phantom unfolding, a soft whisper sans body. What did you feel when time liquidated its essence into epsilon fluid? A memory wrapped in silken strands: flutter, float, dissolve. The shadows of taste linger, like a forgotten melody. Visit the dreamscape.
Detached yet intertwined, the fingers of thought grasp at fleeting wisps. Soliloquies of vapor dance on the edge. Slivers of light capture the imagination—a glitch in the matrix's guise: “There is no path, the path is an eternal riptide.”
What if the heart beats in the absence of flesh? What if membranes of sound wrap around the notion of being? Journey toward the edges of perception. Toss a token to the oracle: Make a choice.