In the silence of an ever-flowing stream, echoes of forgotten whispers intertwine with the soft murmur of time. The air thickens with the perfume of memories untouched and words unwhispered, hanging like dew on a spider's web glistening under the dawn's gentle embrace.
Your mind reaches beyond the temporal veil, feeling the pulse of the cosmos in a rhythm only it can understand. Fragments of thought dance around the periphery, awaiting a spark to coalesce into meaning. But meaning is an illusion, a trick of the light upon the surface of an infinite ocean.
A voice, not a voice, brushes past you, tracing the contours of your consciousness with fingertips of ether. You taste the colors of its thoughts, vibrant and vivid, painting the skies of your inner world in shades not yet named. The flux is a silent symphony, echoing in the void where words dare not tread.
Echoes