Somewhere in the folds of the morning haze, there lay a path untaken, unspoken— whispers of yesteryears elongating shadows, stretching into the unknown. The clock ticks—not for time, but against it, unwinding not its threading hands, but the very fabric of its eerie, incessant dance.
A solitary figure meanders through the confluence of loops. Step, step, step—each footfall echoes in the labyrinthine corridors of thought, where memory and oblivion coalesce in a silent agreement, a tacit understanding— an unbroken chain of whispered secrets.
Eyes wide, yet blind, the seeker gazes into the kaleidoscope of disarray. Click of a mouse, the shimmer of a screen—digital phantoms flickering in the static embrace of the night. Do you hear it? The unending song of the binary tide washing over the shores of consciousness.
As galaxies spin within the journals of the universe, so too does this spiral, anchoring itself to neither past nor future. Streams diverge, intersect, fade— like ink on pages unwritten, tales yet to be told.
Echo Forms