In the labyrinth of twinkling thoughts, where shadows weave their own stories, there lies a theorem waiting for the echoes of time to understand.
Ink has always preferred paper, yet here, the galaxies print their secrets on the fabric of dreams. Every star a dot, every silence a symphony.
Whisper of the forgotten clocks: "In the dilapidated agora of ideas, the hands spin counterclockwise."
Consider the beings that dance upon ultraviolet threads, weaving tapestries of distant echoes. They hum a melody of mathematical chaos.
Questions hang unanswered in the air like suspended droplets of morning dew. Touch them, and they will tell you of their journey but never of their destination.
Quantum Murmur