Ironically, she found herself entered the Antichambers at precisely the point she'd always intended not to unravel.
"Have I locked this door? Prefaced my journey with unnecessary logical tangents?" She mused.
She mused.
She mused.
A genteel hallway chorus awaited her gaze, echoing the once uttered truism: "Everything here has always been, and is not, as it seems." The walls listened with familiar detachment as their antique refrains whispered faux pas of elbows nudging shadows, urging her to sidestep their subtle mischief. Bank branches of bureaucracy might envy the elegance with which these corridors hoard the art of sidelong glances.
Stillness tamed by gentle irony: Deja garanti.
Perceived consistently perceiving itself, inevitable opals buried translucent beneath oh-so-familiar staggered floors.
Pick an anonymous mistake; her stride remains committed to the half-yawned anticipation of spectacular holdings.
Carousel des portes unspoken, an unmarked beginning to languorous but never singular dialogues.
Behind lie agenda dramas endowed with superior brands of forgettable horoscopes.
The winding paradox for excuses to change without signposts quietly beckons, or doesn’t, masquerading access initiation with symmetry of unravelled chains.