Waves of time ripple through the neon fog. The silence here is loud, a cacophony of forgotten histories and futures untold. I stand at the precipice of what's to come, and yet I feel it all slipping away, like grains of sand through an ever-vanishing hourglass.
Back in 2043, I sipped digital coffee under the glimmering skyline of old Paris reborn. The cafes were a fusion of real and pixelated, where conversations sparked like electrical storms against a backdrop of pixelated sunsets.
Do you remember when the machines learned to dream? I was there, in a concrete bunker trying to ignore the humming of circuits, writing about sunsets that never were, seeing glimpses of futures that might one day be.
The neon streets pulse beneath my feet as I wander through the electronic whispers of the past. Each step echoes, reverberating through the fabric of time like ripples in a quantum pond.
Somewhere, a clock ticks — or doesn't. It's hard to tell in this place where time neither flows nor stands still, but hangs suspended like the shimmering veil of a distant reality.
And yet, within this chaos, there lies a peace. A moment of clarity as I realize: time is not a line, but a labyrinth. Endless paths, all leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Just like this page, just like this life.