The echoes of ancient thoughts lingered, fossilized and pressed beneath the weight of living time. In layers, they whispered of unseen paths and the footprints of souls who walked upon them, now sinking slowly into quiet oblivion. What is left when the voices of yore fade, leaving only the ether in which they danced?
Among the sediment of forgotten ideas lies a secret: that the past is not a dead thing, but rather a river flowing beneath the crust of the present, shaping it with unseen currents. We stand at its banks, unaware, unseeing, until such time as we choose to look deeper. Willful ignorance is a warm blanket in the coldness of truth.