Somewhere, amid the intricacies and the meandering corridors of one's own contemplation, there exists an avenue—a shape-shifting passage that bends with both wisdom and folly—that leads not strictly to answers but rather to a vast mosaic of significance woven in opaque threads, visible only beneath the glimmer of doubt.
The corridors of a story are as serpentine as the dreams from which you stir, dreams that reverberate like chimes within walls that whispered long before words were taught how to dance politely across the lips; and within these conversations sprout questions that hardly dare resolve into clear and unsolicited insight.
No pathway makes its intent known, nor confesses to guiding the wanderer to certainty. Yet, one must not conclude all journeys are destinations concealed in mystery: