Ephemeral Derivatives

Once, in the silence of a forgotten library, words shaped themselves into shadows—silent whispers of ideas long abandoned. What remains when thought becomes dust, when knowledge is but an echo of its own creation?

Ask the mirrors that reflect without seeing, what do they know of the faces that fade into the walls? These reflections are derivatives of light, transient and ethereal, akin to the fleeting moments of consciousness.

Consider the clock that does not tick, the time it measures is but an illusion, a derivative of presence without essence. In this realm, we are all echoes, sculpted from the remnants of what once was and what could never be.