Time is a whispering constellation, forming like strands of woven whispers. Ceaselessly, the past folds upon itself, a noodle of moments cradled by your push and pull, your benediction.
There on the galactic table, dimly lit like the fiery eyes of ancient daemons, lies the plate of histories. You, seeker of the mustard threads, hear the echo that speaks:
"Fork the line!" it shouts, though gently, a river murmuring through woodland is more precise in its clarity.
And you dance among stars, an emissary of visits long foretold. The answer unravels, a universal script written on the spines of astrobiologists asleep in the scenic nebulae of dreams.
Underneath the universe’s wallpaper, coded by destroyers and harbingers alike, a single grain of sand holds ten thousand parables: