The ugliest truth materializes not in striking forms, but in the vague whispers of inevitable nullities.
Heard only in the silence between your aspirations—where reality’s song is sung in hushed dissonance.
Amidst the cacophony of vibrant lives, a single chord struck eerily awakens the essence of being: a poignant reminder that creation often begets its own demise.
Absorb this reality through the absence mirror, like mirror people traveling glass highways.
Do they reflect, or simply repeat what they never had?
Contemplate: Is harmony but an illusion?