The answers flutter just out of reach, like the forgotten echoes of a schema lost in subatomic hazes. An old tapestry woven with threads of probability, stitched over with an ever newer narrative. In the beginning, there was a void, yet now we speak of constellations captured in bottles... Murmurs of antiquity.
The light inside the cave twinkled briefly... its dance a reminder of celestial caprices. Shadows play tricks, and the etchings on stone are caused by quanta of light we can barely command. We inscribe fate into the night sky, and still wonder where their stories originally shone. Read this with care: secrets melt into mythology.
Within catacombs, the remnants murmur tales in languages unseen by waking eyes. Only in dreams can the glyphs be deciphered, bled into reality like the sepia hues of bygone days. What is right? What is truth? Only the evolving narrative knows this.