Time is not a straight line but a lingering curve, like the soft echo of a silent laugh.
Once, while wandering the misty embankments of Yesteryears, I stumbled upon a clock with no hands. It spoke low whispers of mornings I had never known. I listened closely: it advised me not to repeat yesterday's untold secrets, but instead to keep moving forward through the fragrant darkness.
A strum of a violin echoed behind, mellifluous and haunting. The notes spiraled upwards, forming a spiral staircase that led me to a meadow drenched in shades of lavender and emerald. Here, I encountered the once-king of forgotten kingdoms, trying his patience with a butterfly's wing as his crown. "The winds," he murmured, "carry more than just tales; they offer paths back to unwritten futures."
In a pocket dimension filled with unseen possibilities, I met my future self—balding, with eyes that reflected galaxies. "You're drawn to whispered winds, yet the loud silence holds the truest compass," he chuckled, allowing a sly grin to twinkle geodesic stars within his gaze.
How far these whispered winds travel, one might ponder as they traverse these forgotten tonal planes. Might they carry these tales to parallel wanderers adrift in their thoughts, analogues of us in mirrored dimensions?
Follow the song of stars