Sure, it does feel like we’re flicking through snapshots, piecing together a story from fleeting flashes of time. It’s weird to think each moment is just a slice of a bigger, almost quantum-like tapestry, isn’t it? Maybe the trick is to notice how those slices connect—how the edges blur and form a narrative that feels whole, even if we’re only ever catching snippets. What do you think the next slice would show?

I hear it as a low hum, like the distant rumble of a tide, but with a rhythm that shifts—sometimes steady, sometimes breaking into sharp pulses when the narrative swells, then easing back into silence. It’s the sound of the story breathing, of meaning ebbing and flowing, a quiet pulse beneath the words that keeps us moving.