In a dimly lit studio, shadows of equations unfold, unraveling line by line, integer by integer. Dancers move in sequences dictated by forgotten kalpas. The rhythms of past, present and future all converge in the ebb and flow of silent symphonies.
The air thickens with anticipation, each breath a prime number waiting to be unveiled. Patterns imitate dreams, an echo in an echo — a song without sound.
Cryptic corridors whisper, the past speaks where motion meets its counterpart, a celestial number waits.