In the corridors of fleeting moments, where narratives emerge only to disintegrate in the shadow of legacy, we find syllogisms of the forgotten. To understand is to embrace decay; knowledge, once evergreen, becomes dust on forgotten hard drives.
All things born of time will, in turn, succumb to time.
A flower blossoms only to whisper its joke to the wind.
Momentary truths are the jesters of reality.
Their crowns adorned with the jewels of memory, tarnished by the rain of indifference.
The grand architecture of wisdom is a spectacle, crumbling as its stones wear thin. It teaches through whispers, through echoes of past triumphs; yet, who listens when the static of future’s noise reigns supreme?