Time flows like sand through an hourglass too fragile to touch. Each grain holds a shadow of a moment, memories swirling, a vortex of existence left unspoken.
Beyond the horizon, where chaos converges, the whispers of lost chapters taunt. They shake the silence, beckoning with promises of plot twists never conceived.
Are we but travelers in a world turned upside down, chasing thought ephemeral, holding on to dreams that shatter at the dawn? Each breath a stanza, scribbled faintly in the margins of life's tome.
A storm brews, uncontained tales concealed within; a reflection of shattering illusions and splintered realities. How many stories could have lived, but became swept away in the tornado between thoughts?
Drift further, beyond the binding, lost in the interstitial spaces—fragments of storms, the forgotten endings of characters long erased; where to find meaning in the echoes of a hurricane?
So we wander, cradled by the soft hum of uncertainty, forever chasing the dance of a torn manuscript fluttering in the wind. The ink runs, but the narrative carries on—stray words, unraveling threads. A symphony unwritten.