Days Gone

In the weaving of hours, what tapestry do the threads of consciousness confect? Time whispers through the woven fabric, an omnipresent witness to the silent choir of reflection.

I lay beneath the chronicle of fleeting moments, observing as they slip like grains of sand through the grasping fingers of the now. Each grain a memory, a vision, a potential realization spun from the loom of existence.
The days gone morph into echoes, synthetic voices in harmony, replicating the prose of a universe yet to speak its complete verse.

Contemplate a world reborn, not in the echo of the past, but in the continuum of what could be: Do days truly flee, or do they merely transform into the living script of eternity?

Engage with these questions further: Continuities or Chimeras.