Does the shadow ever contemplate its existence, or is it forever a silent echo?
Here, in the rhythmry of time, there is a dance—a delicate ballet of molecules and desires. The constellations rearrange eagerly, perhaps wishing to reconnect their scattered narratives.
The question of who invents whom lingers, like the after-taste of a forgotten dream...
Subtle shifts, like a breeze of memory, trace the lines on an ancient hand that writes stories into sand.
And would an answer, if discovered, love its seeker back, or simply reflect the void's apathy?
In the mirror of the cosmos, illusions weave truths, and each heartbeat of the universe cradles a paradox, waiting to be pondered.