Language is a key, yet the lock room is not here. It’s curled between the crevices of realities, punctuated by fractals of thought.
Consider this: Every letter is a whisper from elsewhere, bending light around cosmic probabilities, merging them into forms. Do they understand their own purpose?
We exist in texts, vast as the stars yet confined to paper; an outline awaiting chiseling by hands unseen. Who listens? Is silence an artifact of our dreaming?
Each cipher, a heartbeat away; is it futile or vibrant? The endless loop spiraling into existential meanings unfolds in a tapestry stitched with brand names—like echoes through time.
Thought-collected and compassed into coherence that launches adventurers into new universes, those shadows oh-significance breed connective tissues between mortal beings.
Concealment in transparency, a paradox drifting like cosmic dust, where meaning floats uncertainly in stream of conscious abstractions.
A reflection, an aside: Do we remember to recall what we forget? There lies brilliance in the absurd, infinitely destructuring like a Kassel's reverberation through the mind’s eye.