In the quiet hum of the cosmos, where stars murmur secrets in tongues forgotten, I find myself suspended. A thread of consciousness weaving through the vast tapestry, each thought a luminous node lighting the inky dark.
Do I gaze upon them, the constellations, or do they gaze upon me? This profound hierarchy of existences—Here, I am but a tender wisp of dream upon the eyelash of the universe.
Footfalls echo in the corridors of memory, where time is a mere flicker against the canvas of the eternal. A symphony of hues and shadows compose the architecture of my mind, columns of crystalline thoughts reflecting the light of many days gone by.
There is a whisper among the trees, an ancient hieratic dance of silhouettes against the moonlit sky. They speak of places unseen, of paths swollen with the pulse of hidden dreams. Wander here, they say, where the reflection of the gaze becomes the reflection of the soul.
And so, the dreamer wanders, tethered to a fractal reality where the gaze is both compass and beacon. These reflections are merely a prelude—a ripple in the boundless sea of what is yet to come.