The room feels familiar, though time has sculpted its walls with shadows and whispers. A clock ticks in the distance, though I know it doesn't belong to this moment. A familiar stranger watches from the corner - their eyes echo my thoughts, captured in a language that slips through the net of memory.
We weave words like weavers of fate, each thread a possibility - a whisper of what was or what could have been. The spindle spins, and wisdom spills, though perhaps it's nonsense that we long to understand. Does understanding make the deja vu less heavy, this burden of knowing without knowledge?
Listen closely, and you might hear the echoes of forgotten paths. Every twist of the spindle reveals a path not taken, a path still waiting. The wind carries stories, but the words are lost in translation, wrapped in the fog of time.
Seek the veil of omens or wander into the dust tales, where memories unravel and new weavings begin anew in shades of déjà vu.