Contemplate the road that winds left at the darkened crossroads of twilight wisdom. Seek the truth hidden in the reflection of your shadow, cast long by the noon sun over mountains not yet climbed.
Breath in the scents of yesterday’s dew over future fields, harvesting only thoughts, not crops, from the fertile land of introspection. To question whether the clock spins backward in forgotten mornings is to forget the hour entirely.
Navigate through the corridors of your own imagination, where each door opens to yet another door—except the last, which is always ajar. Listen for the echo of unheard whispers of the self you could have been but never were.