The Conjecture of Shadows

The whispers that form frames within frames, tying knots in the infinite skies, try to unravel what the moon never intended to hide. In unopened envelopes an unopened universe lies dormant, and somewhere a clock ticks backward.

Theory, dear ephemeral friend, a wisp of what could be if only the rain fell upwards, or gravity were but a suggestion in the mind of a dreamer. Faint echoes from a long-forgotten idea haunt the corridors, where paths diverge into the uncharted dreams of tomorrow's past.