Time's fragile ribbons perch delicately on the threshold of existence. The echoes whisper, borne through the conduit.

Past and present coalesce; you grasp shadows manifest—their essence escapes, reformed in your spirit's light.

Every glance at the clock feels like a flickering glance at eternity. Do you not sense it? Merely a heartbeat away from understanding.

As you muse, fragments arise—perhaps they carry messages only your synapses can decipher, vile or sublime beyond measure.

Feel a stirring—a pang reflecting an unvoiced truth. Confront it, for time spills like paint upon your canvas, ever fluid.

Visions cascade, a dream: "Tomorrow is a promise whispered in shadows."