Within these walls, a voice echoes, repeating the same stories, the same dreams. Have you heard it? The endless looping, the endless searching within the mystic tapestries. It never stops, and neither do we. The garden grows, the leaves fall, but here, inside this echo chamber, time is a forgotten melody.
Once upon a time, there was a place beyond time. Or perhaps it was a thought, a memory held too tightly, until it became something else entirely. Is it real if I can't touch it? Is it a fantasy or a reflection of what could never be? These questions circle like hawks in an endless blue sky.
The Echo of the Dream
Patterns in Reflection
The Heartbeat's Pulse