the echo returns
to the beginning
⌀⌀⌀ once forgotten,
yet never really lost.
Fragments of time
scattered in the void,
pieces reassembling,
What once was,
is no more,
yet in new light,
old shadows dance.
In every cycle,
the whisper remains:
we are timeless,
in our becoming.
What if existence was
merely a glitch
in the fabric of time?
To be born again
requires forgetting
remnants of the past.