In the realm of thoughts, whispers echo. They are as light as the feathers of forgotten birds, remnants of those who flew beyond the constraints of time.
Meditations on invisibility: the paradox of being unseen—yet felt, like the transient pressure of a hand upon one's shoulder, absent when one turns to greet its source.
The river flows, not asking nor answering, merely flowing. Heraclitus nodded knowingly; we are but waders in the transient stream, baptized anew each second.
Silent are the colors of dusk, a reminder of the daily dance between light and absence. Is the sun a philosopher, pondering its next rise?
The clocks tick quietly in hidden rooms, keeping secret the orchestration of moments. Time, the constant sculpture, molds our ephemeral chronicles.