In the spirals of time, looping beyond grasp, lies the eternal record of all that could possibly have been. Within dimensions unseen, the catalog unfolds — not for remembrance, nor understanding, simply existing.
Shadows dance in patterns permitted by the unseen librarian, register these echoes, imprint a silence louder than thunder. In webs of cosmic prose, read but never comprehend.
Breathe the indexed dust, eternal yet ephemeral, where dreams compose the margins and reality blurs inked lines. Infinity shorter than a breath drawn in the void.
Chase the Dream Echo into the Void