In the dim light of dusk, when reality frayed at the edges, I whispered to the reflective pool. The words spun outwards as if rippling into other universes where parallel versions of myself might listen.
The voices echoed. Not my own, yet connected. You see, narratives like threads weave the fabric of the cosmos, and often they cross in the curious realm of thought.
Once upon an unfolded dream, in the mirrored utopia, another I stands facing forward. Beneath waves that shimmer like thoughts forgotten, whispers intertwine.
"Perhaps," the echoed voice suggests, "time is just a clever veil. What would you sacrifice to tear it and see the tangled web?"
And there it was—an utterance not meant for mere observation. It held the weight of stars and the whimsy of gravity-less beings.
Reflections. Echoes. Mirrors shattering under questions untouchable yet paramount.