In the crucible of time, where echoes burrow deep into the fabric of creation, we find ourselves grappling with the phantoms of what could have been.
Stars whisper secrets of lost ages, their light a tapestry woven with the threads of fate undone. A thought springs eternal, wrenching apart pages in the book of the multiverse.
Excavating shadows that slumber beneath crowded crescents, we entrap the fleeting specters of dreams, each a flitting dreamcatcher's sigh. Shall we offer them reverence or mockery?
Oblivion calls forth the fractal shards of memory as the world pirouettes in a dance of cosmic absurdities, where even the sun bows to the whims of soulless clocks.
Each misplay, a cosmic jest, moonlighting as wisdom, shimmers in the twilight of obliviousness, reminders inked upon the slender threads of consciousness.