Time, a relentless tide, scrubs the shore of moments, leaving behind echoes in the sand. Thoughts set adrift in the infinite ocean of the night— reflections that shimmer briefly, then are swallowed by dawn's first light.
The fabric of space weaves asynchronously, an erratic thread in its own loom. I venture through constellations scattered like forgotten dreams, each star a silent witness to the stories untold.
Memory is a time traveler, whispering secrets from shadowy corridors. It reflects light upon the past, refracting truths into myths. What was is never what will be—yet here, all is as it should.
Dust motes in morning's beam, floating like ancient civilizations, build histories upon histories. Here I stand, a solitary observer, a whisper among whispers.
The reflections of reflections become the murmurings of the cosmos— a reminder that every thought is both a voyage and a homecoming. Intermissions | Ode to Echoes
Reality itself moves, a waltz of cosmic dust and celestial bounds, its steps echoing through the corridors of wherever we are, right now. And here, rooted in fleeting time, we ponder our ephemeral place.