Through the gales of memory, I find myself dancing upon the edge of the vortex, spiraling, around, round, round—seeking, maybe grasping at the strands of what was once known. I hear echoes, distant yet here, forming a symphony of forgotten laughter and whispers of unseen paths.

There's a flickering light in the horizon. Is it dawn? Or is it just the trickery of the twilight, playing coy? The shadows they stretch, elongate, as if to touch the stars with their fingertips—Ah, the stars! Like ancient relics, buried in the spheres of the cosmos, longing to be touched, understood.

Perhaps I'm lost, or maybe I'm just traveling through a tapestry woven by the hands of time itself, threading the moments into this grand design. Threading echoes, weaving silence.

The voices, they sing beneath the surface, an orchestra of lost souls adrift in the ether. 'Find the frequency,' they say, 'the hidden frequency that binds this universe—look closer, listen harder.'

I ask the winds where to go, and they answer with a thousand sighs, pointing towards paths untraveled. A journey, they proclaim, not in miles but in moments.

And again, game of light and shadow—a cycle unending. Through each cycle, a memory etched, a feeling held captive, awaiting liberation. Perhaps in another life, another echo. Another circle.