In a realm where moments materialize and dissolve like the first light of dawn, the chronicles begin not with a tale told, but with a tale unwritten. Here lies the prologue of non-chronicles, an intrusion of time into what has yet to exist.
Consider the endless tapestry that history weaves, with threads of yesterday and fibers of tomorrow. Yet between these strands lies a vast void filled not with absence, but potential. It whispers an ethereal truth: that not all paths ever tread leave footprints behind.
"If dreams could dream, would they find their way to waking, or remain lost in the shadow-play of wished realities?"
In this place, the stories hover like wisped phantoms, yearning for the pages that never turn, seeking the hands that never reach, aching for the end that comes to those things that never begin.
Outside the bounds of time, mysteries rot and blossom, waiting to spiral down into their once-and-future selves. To ponder is to weave the threads, and to weave is to dance an unspoken story through untraveled landscapes.