In the curving corridors of thought, a gentle breeze plays a symphony, woven not with notes but with the silence that speaks volumes, rustling truths yet spoken, and hiding trespassing doubts.
Amidst these come the echoes of distant lands unbelieved, where souls dance under starlit canopies, moving gracefully in their reveries, seeking understanding in the boundless night.
Once, I found a shell, deep within the sand, murmuring tales from the ocean's core— a kindred spirit, singing a soft lament to the inevitable passage of time.
Each breath of the wind reminds me: we are stardust in orbit, spiraled by unseen forces, searching, always searching for our place, our purpose, our peace.
The stars whisper too, in their fluent void voice, stories of otherness— a quiet language, dwelling in membranes of cosmic delight and isolation.
One day, beneath an indifferent sky, perhaps we will understand, not by grasping the threads of fate, but in the gentle letting go, the becoming wind.