Once upon a reflective pane, not seeing the universe so much as hearing it whisper secrets. Do you remember, the smell of rain on asphalt that speaks of cities past and yet to come? It's that thread again, drawing memories like wounded soldiers of familiarity to sigh at lost crossroads yet ever so intimate.

Musings when the clock strikes an unscheduled hour pour into the space left unfilled by small talk. The echo resonates in a language older than the first gasp of surprise from an infant's lips—a phrase perhaps whispered by the shadows, symptomatic of a déjà vu epidemic. Have we danced this circle before?

Collages completed in annotations turning kaleidoscopic; color darkening under moonlit conspiracies, though tomorrow expects none of this madness. But then again, you've known it all, haven’t you? The first step spoke, for perception isn’t a line but a tapestry, weaving its uncertainties about progression, concatenations of thought as spirits capable of flight.

Choose levers, tempt fate... and observe the echoing symphony that ensues. It shall resonate through the very threads of existence... infinity.