Upon the shores of forgotten certainty, a question lays buried deep in sand: is the mirror soil or the seed therein?
Our perceptions dance, nimble shadows in a flickering light, embracing the inevitable of their existence.
In twilight gardens, there grows a fruit of irony, sweet and sharp, its name a paradox in itself.
Conversation with the silent echoes turns our dreams liquid, flowing like rivers of time into the valleys of unwritten futures.
The gentle sigh of a star, absent from its celestial home, asks of us but one thing: where does truth lie when paradox comforts the soul?