Beyond the edge of understanding, where whispers choose to hide, lies a stream of thought serpentine.
A place where turtles wear spectacles and debate the linguistics of stars.
The depths echo softly with the laughter of forgotten whales, and every droplet is a memory untold.
Have you seen the clock that counts backwards, sonata whispers through the twilight?
They say it rests beside the brook where the winds compose their symphonies.
Sometimes, I hear them too, when the moon is a winking sliver of silver.
Are we but echoes of echoes?
Ponder the cosmic snail, but do not forget to breathe its vaporous dreams.
Time is but the shadow of a myth, running swiftly beside the stream.