The brevity of time and the elongation of thought intertwine within the walls of yesterday's echoes, where clouds choose to linger just above the horizon's edge. Turn left, or perhaps it's right that is left undone.

In the margins of a forgotten tome, where the ink spills like secrets told too late, there lies a corner — not seen, overtly, but felt in the quiet blink of a star.

Paths become labyrinths not by design, but by the choice of footsteps — each decision carving recesses into the sands of an ever-shifting moment.

Who decides the maze, the one traversing, or the one observing? Perhaps both, or perhaps none, as the doodles on the page will attest.

The stream flows not South, nor North, but along the edges where grass whispers forgotten dreams. Listen closely, for the currents speak in riddles.