He possessed an old mandala. Inked in golden hue. It pulsated on his sallow skin, a cosmic swirl. A mystic’s mark. He was a voyager in consciousness’ vast sea. Each intricately etched line, a synchronic path. Each curve, an embodiment of Kairos.

His eyes mirrored the stars. Fate’s weaver, draped in destiny’s threads. Today, the golden mandala hummed anew. Celestial alignment, he mused. An opportune juncture, a pivotal time.

He sighed, feeling the cosmic pull. The mandala, lore of ages inked. It whispered continuums’ knowledge. His heart beat, echoed the universe’s rhythm. Yes, he affirmed silently. Today, destiny dances on my skin.