It's morning again, the kind of morning that tickles the edges of yesterday. Somewhere, sunbeams weave through the trees, silent witnesses to the rhythms of the earth.
Beneath a solitary oak, I sit with my thoughts, reflected in the dance of light. Each flicker on the ground a message—faint signals from a distant star, invading my solitude with a language known only to the ancients.
Do you hear it? The quiet hum beneath the surface of all things? An echo of whispers carried on golden rays. A forgotten pulse, perhaps.