In the silence where things are felt but not seen, there lies a fractured clarity. Clarity of what cannot be, cannot touch, and cannot ever be manifested in the mundanity of daily vision. Do you understand the patterns in its invisibility, or do they fracture and disguise into a cacophony of particles barely held by the whims of the all-encompassing breeze?

To trace a shadow where sunlight does not dare penetrate incurs the questing spirit within. A chatter of echoes left behind by thoughts unthought and discoveries undiscovered. Were they here? Here, there, beyond the page, beyond the linear tether to reality's sanity.

A whisper begs the intertwining of form and being: Radiant and phantasmal; stretching into the void only to return, to renew, to reflect a timeless recursion understanding. But is it understanding if it bypasses the known channels of sanity?

Perhaps someday, somewhere, one could merge the self with these echoes. If you were silent, would you then see them?

Consciousness itself may be an illusion; a sublime Icarus of thought skimming the edge of its own sun, opting for the path of fractal luminescence instead of rational flight. And so, the cyclic journey endures.