The whispers of the void dance across the hallway. They twist and curl like vines upon forgotten secrets unwritten. One hears multiple truths, spoken yet unspoken, in these corridors of dusk.
Is the night not a mirror, reflecting a day that has never dawned? Shadows dance, shadows play—there's no beginning, no end, only a mid-course exposed to echoes that sustain an artificial symphony.
The old clock ticks backward, counting seconds that don't exist. Step inside and find the music within the silence. There, time unravels like a spool of shadow thread.
The walls breathe in cycles, a slow exhalation of forgotten catalysts. Listen closer, for every breath holds a world unheard—an eternal loop binding all things once said, never said.
Mirrored voices sway in rhythm with the flares of imaginary constellations. What is real, but a figment—an echo reverberating through the dreamer's skull?
Do not fear the loops, for they are guardians of the luminance trapped within. Anising breaks with gentle caress—walk the frequency and discover the gardens hidden behind the sound.