In ancient stories, the weaver spun the fates, a loom of threads binding joy and despair. As one thread tightened, another loosened, creating a dance known but to the stars. Do we grasp the keys, or are we the locks ourselves, forever seeking joy beyond reach?
Remember, dear traveler, those fleeting moments of bliss, like sunlight breaking through rain. They paint the memory tapestry with colors vivid yet fading, each square a frozen heartbeat. When did you last hold such a moment in your hands, only to watch it slip, a whisper of eternity?