The theta waves ripple through the void, a language of senses not lost, but never claimed. The phantom limb feels the universe, as if tracing the delicate outlines of stars in a midnight sky, fingers dancing upon the edge of existence.
With nostalgia echoing from corners unseen, we ponder limbs not there. Are they ghosts, or are we shadows intertwining with notions remembered? There is an observation here: one of presence felt, not seen, a reminder of a touch where absence speaks volumes.
To navigate through currents unseen, and to capture whispers of phantom desires. Does the mind find comfort in illusion, or is it reality's subtler waves we hear as they crest upon our subconscious shores? The reflection is almost too real, a tide responsive only to its concealment in thought.
Sometimes, silently, the void sends ripples towards a horizon we cannot reach. Yet, somehow, we stand at the edge, feeling the echoes as they cascade into the beyond. And there we ponder, a lone observer, a wisp in time - not seeking, only appreciating the touch of theoretical threads.