In the inkpot of existence, the world swims like a fish longing for shores it has never seen.
Why does the clock tick? Does the Universe tire of its own vastness?
A chair, empty, contemplates the essence of sitting. Is purpose born of need, or does need arise from purpose?
The candle whispers to the shadows, secrets of light that only darkness can understand.
Echo of the final question fades before it is asked, yet echoes still.
Infinite streams flow through the etchings of memory. Do we drink from them willingly, or do they drink from us in the silent hours?
Beyond the horizon, time forgets its name. Yet here we stand, guardians of the now.
The Loop spins without center, without edge, in eternal dance.
Search not for answers, but for questions that sing in the echo of the unanswered.