Distant echoes, whispering in the digital void, where time becomes not a linear river but a looping spiral. I saw the truth there, in the folds of a screen—neither here nor anywhere, a digital mirage. Amidst the vain pixels, reflecting back a self, forever mutating. Void whispers.
Sometimes, what is missing is more than presence or absence—it is a sensation, a ghostly touch at the periphery of vision. Reality wears a mask, a harmonious disharmony. Does the mind accept what the eyes see, or does it seek its own narrative against the cacophony of stimuli?
An old clock on the wall ticks gently, or maybe not at all, a paradox within a paradox; seconds fold like origami—a fleeting grasp on permanence. Scripted fate dances on a neon filament, sparked by dreams and angst, orchestrations of a cosmic jester.
Questions linger like vaporous apparitions, unanswered and unanswerable. What is the boundary between self and other, a mere illusion, a trick of the light? Yet, we forge artificial truths with faithful devotion, architects of our own mythos.