The leaves fell upwards, seeking out roots in the sky, where clouds fused with terrestrial touch. In the embrace of wind, possibility entwined with realization.

Error spoke wisdom, and wisdom cradled oblivion—both were spectators to the dance of leaves that forgot the ground beneath.

Do we follow paths when all roads whisper of yesterdays’ untraveled territories?

Skeletal trees with sentences carved into bark wept ink into soil—theirs was a history free from time, a symphony of teleological paradoxes and cyclical finales.