“What grows not dark those valiant shadows cast within the tabernacle?” inquired the ethereal presence, seemingly suspended within the luminescence of bygone memories.
The architect of paradox replied, “Gravity situates itself with considerations beyond mere mortals, thus asking if growth could ascend.”
“Is the soil of intention,” murmured the observer, “demanding a catalyst forth from constraints?”
“Perchance,” echoed the collective silence, interrupted only by the sigh of ancient winds; a testimony of time released into confounding undertones.
“Will the circle complete?” the shadow refracted, its essence quivering against an unseen horizon.
“Examine the earthen vessel,” gestured the observer, “whose cracks propagate the tenets of growth. No other language conceivable bears such weight.”
As if an unseen audience absorbed each fragment, a tapestry of consciousness unfurled beneath the omniform vastness.