Beneath the visible world lie the paths untaken, lined with choices once firm in the hands of yesterday. Each step echoes a shadow, a reflection in a pool of fleeting light.
Therefore, mark the dry ink upon parchment, a palimpsest in sepia tones, writing itself anew. Melodies lost and found again speak softly, with voices woven on the looms of forgotten time.
Let histories not fade like the whispers of a wind-borne message, a cry in the dark felt more keenly by those who dare listen. Observe the tree etched into bark, a witness to tears, laughter misplaced within songs that never hummed.
Among us, the unseen journeys etch themselves deeper into flesh and thought, haunting until embraced as whispers into our marrow. Yes, understood from a distance until the journey's embrace is given near, not far.