In the vast canvas of cosmic ballet, where stars weave luminous tapestries, the stone—static, resolute—finds itself awash in orbit. Consider the stone, a relic of erosion; its particles once delicate whispers now an eternal, cacophonous silence in motion. Yet which is more transient: the seemingly immutable stone or the orbit that cradles it?
This orbit, neither a prison nor a cradle, defines the confines of fleeting moments. The stone observes, perhaps unaware, its trajectory a deterministic dance of physics unfurled in the grand cosmos. Does it wonder, as fleeting thoughts cross a transient mind?
Perpetual motion, or mere illusion? The Cycle