The world sings its song; layered beneath is a whisper, a subplot unconcealed yet unnoticed. Open the door, listen for echoes, and feel the tremor across the universe.
Your coffee cup at 3:09 AM, that date scribbled in the foggy bathroom window -- moments are orchestrated... orchestrated, yes, but by whom?
Once frozen, the rivers melt into melodies, their strains connecting you to the constellations and conspiracies of old. Are those patterns coincidences, mere coincidences?