The universe breathes, a silent rhythm in the dark. As I sit on this lonely edge, where space begins to fold back upon itself, I hear the remnants of a cosmic whisper. It speaks in the language of dust—the fine particles that drift in the silence, settling softly on thoughts unspoken.
Some say the vortex is a passage, others a mere illusion. But here, amid the swirling gravity of unknown forces, I feel both. There’s a pull towards something greater, and yet, the stillness of the void offers a comfort like no other.
Do you hear it too? This subtle call, a promise of journeys untaken, of stars that never were? The vortex spins tales, ancient and wise, in a voice that only the patient can understand.
Maybe we’re all just whispers in this cosmic dance, particles in a vortex of time and memory.