Beneath the void's silent pulse, each star a whisper, reverberates an echo of forgotten dreams. Can you trace the origins of the cosmos within the creases of a leaf?
Existence floats like vapor—a tapestry woven by unsure hands
in the vastness of time’s relentless breath.
When do shadows cease to dance, and when does the question become more than the answer?
Pathways unseen, yet walked by specters on ether's breath, until every "I" dissolves into the lattice of all. The parable told by morning dew, condensed on the web of an invisible architect.
Are we merely echoes
or the secrets
that the cosmos
dares to keep?
Have you heard?
The unsuspecting wind whispers through the sieve of ages.