In the stillness, where light ceases its eternal chase, I found whispers of forgotten harmonies. They spoke not in words, but in a language we had long unlearned—a tongue woven from the fabric of stars and shaped by the hands of night.
Have you ever stood at the abyss of remembrance, peering into its depths, only to feel the soft caress of echoes brushing against your soul? Here lies the truth: the universe is a dreamer of dreams, and its slumber is punctuated by the silent bursts of creation we call galaxies.
As the waves—silent waves—of echoes recede, they leave behind a shoreline of questions: Who are we, but the remnants of a cosmic thought, quivering in the dust of forgotten aeons? What are dreams, but glimpses of the infinite’s whispers, echoing through the chambers of what could be?
Reflect