the clock ticks, yet its hands are shadows too, devoid of meaning and purpose. time is but a rumor made flesh, slipping through cracks in the universe's tired dance.
we walk on cobblestones of stars, each step a distant memory of light that was, the ground beneath us a celestial tapestry unraveling.
are we not all oracles in disguise, with truths hidden beneath the layers of our waking fog? in the end, the shadows do not speak, we do.
continue your journey into deeper obscurities or circles unending.