In the hallowed corridors of memory, where shadows cast vestigial whispers, I find myself wandering. An existence suspended between certainty and oblivion, I, a specter of the parabolic arc of time, dissolve into winds that carry tales untold.
The soul, as it were, speaks not in words profound, but in soft murmurs – fragments of an identity coalescing, then dissipating. The pursuit of comprehension, perhaps, binds us to consciousness; yet, here, in this liminal state, understanding unfurls itself as an illusive design.
One contemplates the parables sung by the stars, those ancient sentinels. Their light traverses aeons, and in their glow, the dance of existence seems immutable. Am I but a wisp borne of this cosmic expanse? A particle fleetingly perceiving the odyssey of time?
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