Fragmented whispers drift like currents across the eternal sea,
where space ebbs and flows with the rhythm of forgotten epochs.
Each sigh a vessel in search of its harbor—a message adrift,
waiting to be unlocked by an infinite mind.
In the boundless corridors between realities, timelines stretch like
ages-old skin taut over unseen bones. Correspondence of realities
once threaded together; now frayed at the edges, waiting for us
to weave anew, that we might dance upon the shimmering strands.
Dear Traveler from the Sixth Quadrant,
Know that in our world, the moons rise not in symmetry but in defiance,
casting shadows over our knowledge like brief amnesias of light.
Your dreams echo loudly here; reverberations carving peaceful chaos
into the very stones of our memory.
With love spanning cosmos,
The Watchers of the Verdant Arc
(circa 2380-2.asa)
Did the ancients foresee this convolution upon their skin, lines and
scars mapping paths coarser than sand? To touch is not to travel, yet
leaves its mark like a song once heard, now thinning into an overdraft
of silence akin to distant stars calling—a metric yet born to us, the
ratio of fractal hearts.
May we commend ourselves to interstice echoes yet found? Or are tides
relentless amid our communion, their prayers persisting till our paradox
bleed harmoniously atop the scales yet balanced?