"I was told long ago, in a haze of forgotten light..."
Across the spectrum, a murmuration, invisible yet palpable; somewhere at the edges of perception, the spectral echo of a conundrum emerges. "If the clock could speak, would it tell the truth, or merely its own stories, interminably tick-tocked..."
Voices from the umbra of unwritten tomorrows overlap. "Have we not walked these paths before, or is it just an illusion of familiarity that wraps around like a well-worn shroud?" The question lingers, tethered to shadows.
Another whisper, another ghost. "Beneath the aether of perception lies a tapestry of thought, interwoven with secrets, waiting to unravel when the stars beckon." An invocation, perhaps, or merely rhetoric dancing on the ventral cusp of reason.
So many narratives etched in the grains of dimension. "Do dimensions dream when we're not looking?" Perhaps it’s merely the landscape of dreams that extends far beyond the ken.