We have nothing but time,
yet time is nothing
but the now,
a single point,
as thin as a whispered breath,
as vast as it cannot be lost.
The mind stretches it
into a river of becoming,
flows it into length,
then spreads it to width and depth,
and what was fleeting
solidifies into the lattice of space,
the architecture of being.
Past and future,
mirrors of illusion.
Space itself,
a mirage of repetition.
All three dimensions
fold upon the fourth,
a wheel of infinite unfolding,
spinning without beginning,
without end.
Here there is no before,
no after,
only the pulse
of the mirrorless now,
each breath a universe,
each heartbeat
a turning of the cosmic loom,
forever weaving
and vanishing
in the same sacred instant.
