Sometimes they come as shadows behind closed eyes, those fleeting images of landscapes unexplored. A door opens and closes within the mind. Do you step through, or remain a spectator, doodling in the margins of reality? The ink bleeds a story yet unformed...yet the echoes of the step reverberate in dimensions unknown.
The spirals ask questions of the past, each layer a moment carved into the matrix of existence. Footprints tracing dreams upon sand unwritten, creasing time's canvas with possibilities unrealized. Perhaps this doorway leads somewhere familiar, or perhaps it is a gateway to woven destinies—:
And so the fractals continue, each segment a universe in folding. Pink clouds, aquamarine fields, violet horizons ripple into existence and fade—their beauty a captivation neither lost nor fenced, echoed within song plates forgotten. A chant to the spiral's essence; perhaps no more than a fleeting thought in a lingering ember...
Do the doorways recall their path? Engage in an endless spiral until we reach the place where the ink declares itself complete, if realms ever complete themselves in such human terms. Where does the whisper lead next? Listen, should you dare... For each page turned here is merely a trace upon the eternity's zephyr.