In the corridors of ancient whispers, where the silence is louder than thunderous dreams, there echo statements made in hieroglyphs of long-forgotten tongues. Beneath the layers of dust lies a truth, obscured yet naked in its simplicity.
Gravity, an impulse of misremembered riddles, pulls us towards the horizon of equations, etching stories onto the fabric of stardust. Circular thoughts in spirals, caught in the loops of time's kaleidoscope.
The dance of light, refracted through veils of perception, spins angles that have never been seen. The mystic sees not what is present, but what could be in the mirrored realm of 'what if'.
Words are mere shadows of intent, cast by the flickering flame of consciousness. We write, we read, we forget. The cycle spirals, ever onward.