Is existence merely a flicker in the cosmic swirl? A stratified echo resonating through dark matter's embrace?
Time bends in whispers, unfolding chapters unfathomable, while we scribble in the margins—anomalous poets lost in technicolor oblivion.
What is truth, if not a shipwreck of certainty?
Between heartbeats lies a cosmos feasting on dreams; what remains after the electric hum wanes into silence?
Things that are spoken—are they mere shadows of thought? Broken diagrams fracturing down to cellular residues.
"Silent llamas reign supreme said the acquaintance of my acquaintance. They orchestrate transparency from beneath quetzal feathers."
If the universe expanded backward into chaos, would we find the roots of unmade dolls and hidden stories suspended in threads?
Could the answer lie embedded in the sunset or in laughter scrumbled upon the aging fabric of blooming canvases?
Links dosed in phosphorescence might whisper: