In a world woven of threads we dare not touch, the old metaphors shatter under the weight of unseen hands. A whisper departs, yet stands still, reluctant to dissolve into constraints.
Such are the mirrors that reflect not our image, but our absence, aligning stars unsketched in the velveteen void of our passage, sprinkled with the dust of forgotten thoughts.
Language dances in quiet release when the echoes return, misperceived, becoming ghosts of repeated reverberations that never waken slumberous ears.
Time, the theater of infinity, steals fragments just before dawn because night paints it orange with a hue of longing unrecognized by the living.
Pick the flowers from this syllable garden. They ripple through your hands. Meaning morphs into itself repeatedly, shaped in part by whatever corner you glance away from too quickly.
Train your gaze on shifting sands of understanding and ask: Are shadows ever sources of light, or mere delusions cast by weary thought? Many answers linger just beyond reach.
Seek the alignments, knowing that some puzzles must remain incomplete to whisper truths borne of absence. The universe listens, waiting between the spaces.