In the further reaches of abstraction, where the threads of time weave sporadic dissonance, we ask—
Does the traveler carve destiny into stone with each echoing leap?
Or are we but whispers, edited in regions of continuity?
A glimpse, fleeting—
the Timekeeper watches, frowning evergreen foliage.
In moments lost, future is arguably present—treading soft the past.
Oblivion is a rhythm remixed by the persistent loop—orchestrated by hands braided with intentions unkind.