In the dim attic of consciousness, where whispers weave silhouettes from remnants of thought, lies a nest. Shallow yet profound, cradled within are the eggs of intention, each gasping for realization within the warmth of pondering futures.
Timelines unfurl as parchment skyways, each inked in layers of yesterdays and what-ifs. With hands made of shadows, we stitch them with quiet care, every thread a possibility that flickers softly beneath the moonlit attic door.
Reflect. In the hushed corridors of time, footsteps echo from paths not taken, reverberating through the delicate shell of dreams. Will this egg crack with the light of a day unimagined, or will it remain, unbroken, a testament to the silence of unchosen roads?
Venture further into the quiet:
Beneath a sky of static stars, reflections await their moment. Will they echo in eternity or dissolve with the dawn?