corridors of ancient thought await the wanderer's footfall, echoing whispers long forgotten, stitched together from shadows. Eyes, where are they hidden, among the dust motes floating in static silence?
a mind not locked but breathless, inhaling the past in present tenses, unlocking doors without keys, but with a touch that lingers. Where have the voices gone? perhaps along the pathways of electric dreams.
words scatter like leaves in a forgotten autumn, ever searching for ground unclaimed by winter's grasp. hands reach into the labyrinth, finding only the echoes of their own thoughts, mirrored back from infinite corridors.
thoughts like streams meandering through valleys etched in silence, seeking the sea only to find themselves. oh, the irony—the locked minds become caches of keys, each one forging the unseen path. discover the shimmering light reflected off the glass webs, each a tiny universe encased in dew.
the corridors breathe, if only one stops to listen; the whispers are there, secrets of ages untold, folded into the seams of reality, waiting for the unwary traveler who dares disturb their slumber.