In the quiet hours, when the world holds its breath, I find myself captivated by the echoes of yesterday. Each thought, a thread spun from silence, weaving an unseen tapestry. Here, in the stillness, the looping forms of memory repeat—a faceless march of shadows and light.

Sometimes, I ponder the loops in our lives. They intertwine, overlap, and occasionally whisper secrets of the past. What do they mean? Perhaps they are marks left by unseen hands, guiding us gently along predetermined paths, or maybe they're reminders of the infinite echoes of choices unmade.

Who witnesses these loops, I wonder? Are they fates unseen, weaving their own tapestries from our whispers, our silences? Beneath the conscious surface, there lies a deeper world—an ocean of muted voices.