In the hushed corridors of memory, where time threads its endless needle, there lies a tapestry unwoven, an archive of whispers.
Palimpsests etch their stories deeper than ink, yet the hands that erase do not consider the shadows left behind. What truth resides in the fragments we choose to forget?
Secrets untold are not lost; they linger in the spaces between words, breathing in the silence. The scribes, with their quills of shadow, penned futures unseen.
"To write is to remember, to forget is to write anew; therein lies the paradox, the beauty of the palimpsest."
As sand slips through fingers, so too do our truths shift beneath the weight of time. The tapestry frays, yet the image remains—untouched, unseen.
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