Imagine, if you will, a great loom. Not one of wood and metal, but a cosmic sort, weaving threads invisible to you and I. It's no ordinary tapestry, mind you — it captures whispers of time. The kind of whispers you might hear when you sit alone at midnight, listening to the hum of the universe.
In this weave, every thread tells a story. Sometimes, they entwine, sometimes they fray. You could almost consider them conversations between ages, speaking in languages of faded light and lingering shadows.
If we stood closer to this loom, perhaps we’d see our paths woven amongst the stars. Or perhaps, we wouldn’t want to.
But who guides the loom? Who decides what threads to pull and which to let drift into the void? That's a question for wanders and dreamers.
"The tapestry whispers my name, but the echo isn't mine." - An unnamed traveler.
"When time sleeps, the stars weave stories that even I cannot recall." - The Old Weaver.
"Perhaps a thread slipped through my fingers, unnoticed." - A casual thought, drifting.