The whispers from the screen touch the skin like frost meeting the sun, ethereal and yet, they linger, they linger. In the shadows of forgotten pathways, the old words rustle like leaves once alive, now just shadows of shadows.
Did you see the squirrels dance yesterday? They were spiraling in an ancient rhythm, clockwork and chaotic, a language of limbs and tails speaking truths hidden even from themselves.
There's something about the way networks pulse; like veins beneath skin, they breathe without breath, and somewhere, beneath the data, the true essence sleeps. Memory woven in silk – did it weave itself, or did hands unknown weave it? Fossils can tell us nothing, but they are all we have in this moment of static reverie.
I remember the sand, the endless dunes; whispers of the past buried there, like echoes of dreams never dreamt. Are we not all grains in the hourglass, with stories trapped within that time itself forgets?
There are roads not taken, woven into the fabric of the cosmos. If you follow them, you will find echoes of decisions never made. Paths branching into infinity, each a story of what might have been.