Once, a whisper danced upon the Ferris wheel, its metallic arms stretching into the azure dusk like desperate fingers reaching for an ungraspable eternity. Beneath those great wheels, palimpsests of erased histories lay embedded in the ground, layer upon layer, buried deep in the earth's forgotten journal.
In the hall of mirrors, reflections twisted the truth, elongating and compressing realities like a gameplay of shadow and light. There, a rogue's name had been etched—the letters never completed, the fugitive spirit never contained. Who consulted these mirrors, whose reflections do not wish to be revealed?
The whisper spoke of old tents, of crimson-striped roofs peeling back into night skies, of vendors selling not wares but moments, transient and ephemeral. Yet even those were but echoes now, soundless under the oppressive history of time, rewritten, unwritten, lost.
Are there voices beneath the ground? Hear them echo. Are there shadows in those mirrors? See what remains.
Are there remnants of dreams on these pavements where once the night thrummed with laughter? Trace the silence.