In the hush of moonlit whispers, the surface trembles. What is the self, if not a shadow cast upon the void?
The mirror speaks, but its voice is the echo of forgotten dreams.
The trees have eyes of ancient wisdom, gazing with a scrutiny that pierces the fabric of sanity. Do they know of the labyrinth within?
Beyond the threshold lies another world, yet it is the same. Reality bends, not in an arc, but in folds, like a forgotten page in an old tome.
The calibration of reflections is not a measure, but a meditation. In each reflection, a kaleidoscope of selves dissipates into the ether.