Time is an infinite line drawn in the void by an unseen hand. It has neither beginning nor end; it is merely a movement dissolving into existence, a shadow lingering on the edge of memory. As the past falls upon the present like a pale light, the future takes shape within a darkness yet unnamed. The present moment is a thin pane of glass vibrating between two eternities—it shatters at a touch and vanishes at a glance. The hands of a clock are but tiny notches carved into the silence of the universe. Yet, time cannot be contained within any timepiece. At times, a thousand years are lived in a single second; at others, years freeze within the span of one breath. In the belief that one is measuring time, one is, in truth, counting one’s own diminishing. Perhaps time does not flow at all. Perhaps we are merely colors passing through it—emerging, fading, and reappearing in a different form. Every moment is an abstract shape rising from its own ashes; every memory, a faint mark left upon the surface of eternity. And in the end, there remains neither the entirety of the past nor the promise of the future. Only silence.