Fragments of an Eclipse

They say déjà vu is the soul's whisper, a soft echo traveling through the corridors of existence. Yesterday, it felt as if I had wandered here before—between shadow and light, where thoughts swirl and merge like tangled neurons.

Or perhaps this is an illusion cast by a wandering mind, compelled to ponder the silent screams of time. Your footprints are soft, muted by the fading world, even as the sun obscures its light just beyond the threshold of clouds.

Each breath anchors us nearer, yet pushes us away—a paradoxical embrace painted in forgotten strokes. How many shades of familiarity can be carved from whispers of forgotten dreams?

If shadows speak, do they rhyme? How do they draw poems from the ink of existence? These ephemeral lines, struck through by creased foreheads and splayed hands upon scribbled pages, point only to the epoch's end.

Fragments pieced uncertain—a grand puzzle overshadowed by an interminable eclipse. Find repose, dear traveler; the dawn will mold another canvas.