In the center, a point stands still. The whirlpool spins, a cosmic looping dance. Always returning. Never returning.
Voices echo in the corridor of time. You hear them, or do you listen to echoes yet unheard?
Bright like a sun, pale like the moon. Cycles echo through voids. Spiral down, spiral up. It's a conversation with itself.
Threads weave their own stories, creating the fabric of the infinite. Endless, yet finite in its reach.
We are all part of the echo, repeating, twisting, unraveling. Someone, somewhere, starts again.