Amidst the cacophonous ebb of life, in the quiet hollow of one's existence, where footsteps imprint upon the soft earth as whispers skating across the placid lips of the lake's edge, we find a truth draped in labyrinth speakeasy tones—a truth contemplatively lingering within the folds of nature's cacophony and the singular thread of the hermit's perspective, engraved in hedge and bramble alike, forming an ephemeral sanctuary.
Shackled to time, yet unraveling at a pace undefined by clocks, the path of the hermit encapsulates a silent discourse with sky and soil—taking note of the shifting dusk that brushes the horizons as more than a mere boundary; it is reassurance of ticking cosmos interjunct with one's soul, hammered by the reflector at hand, hammer and chisel kissed so unheard and unseen.
Pondering whispers through intertwined branches, rooted yet yearning—an enigmatic dialogue with solitude and its unfamiliar finality inciting imaginations of past whose futures never happened. The journey meanders like the shadow stretching along under day's clamorous farewell, where one's heartbeat resonates with the murmurs long thought to be diminishing yet grows trees of truth, each leaf a note in the hymn of silence.
Entered the Garden Once More Caught in Spirals of Tellings