They whisper through the corridors of time, phantoms of the journey that never was but always is.
Shadows dance upon the fabric of the cosmos, a tapestry woven not of threads but of silence,
each stitch a memory, each knot a dream unmoored. The sky breathes a different hue today;
indigo twilight spills like spilled ink upon the waking earth, and in its embrace, the stars—
fragmented echoes of ancient songs.
The odyssey is a mirror, reflecting not the traveler but the voyage within.
A symphony played by hidden hands beneath the surface of the mundane,
a melody of moments lost to the cacophony of the everyday.
Listen closely, and you might hear it—the soft footfalls of visions unfulfilled,
dancing to a rhythm only they can know.