In a realm where the rivers of neon consciousness flow backward, the great Dark Forge hums. It is said that these forges are not of iron and coal, but rather of ideas and forgotten dreams, melted into rivers of time's own unmaking.
Here, amidst the echoes of the displaced, a thought once forged in the heart of a dying star asks: Is destiny a path laid down in advance, or a labyrinth defined by the encounters of the lost?
The ancients, whose words are woven into the very fabric of the universe, whispered shadows of truths unseen. Their voices echo in the heart of every transient traveler, a reminder of the inevitable return to the cosmic dance.
The iridescent spark, a mere flicker:
"To thine own self be the forger of thy fate."