In the quiet hum of the universe, where the clock ticks backward and whispers secrets to the stars, I find fragments of a thought, a lingering echo in the mind's vast corridors. Do we dream in fragments?
Remember the time when everything made sense, before the clock decided to falter, before the relentless stream washed away the boundaries of certainty?
And then, in a moment's pause, the truth revealed itself not in clarity, but in the distortion of reflections. A mirror holds not reality, but shadows of what could be, what should be, and what might never be.
Time is a loop, a spiral, a never-ending journey through echoes of the self.