Is time a river, or is it merely particles dancing? The universe doesn't whisper in words; it murmurs in cycles, celestial harmonics unable to cease in their silent orchestration. Time, like space, a stretch with bends and folds ungraspable, echoes in the vacuum.
Voices of the cosmos repeat, not in loops but in spirals—a Fibonacci chorus, an L. L. Allan sonnet devoid of end. Each rotation, each orbit a stanza in the epic of stars beyond our grasp, opaque yet familiar.
Beyond the known whispers, seek paths less tread: